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SAM  LOVEL'S  BOY 


BY 


ROWLAND  E.  ROBINSON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  RnFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

^\)e  RitocrsitiE  press,  ^CambribQE 

1901 


f1 

^3 


COPYRIGHT,    I9OI,  BY  ANNA  S.    ROBINSON,   ADMINISTRATRIX 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Naming  the  Boy        .        .        .        .        .1 
II.  Two  Happy  Comrades  ...        19 

III.  A  Rainy  Day  in  the  Shop      .         .         .30 

IV.  A  Visit  to  Gran'ther  Hill        .        .        37 
V.  A  Ball 52 

VI.  Canadian  Tales 59 

VII.  Wood  Folks 68 

VIII.  New  Comrades 82 

IX.  Departure  of  an  Old  Friend       .        .    95 
X.  The  Puppy's  Education        .        .        .      105 

XI.  Peach  Daunt 114 

XII.  The  Lynx 122 

XIII.  School  Days 149 

XIV.  The  First  Fox- Hunt     ....      170 
XV.  Trapping 180 

XVI.  Fox  Life 198 

XVII.  Antoine 222 

XVIII.  The  Schoolmaster        ....      230 
XIX.  In  War  Time     ......  247 


SAM  LOVEL'S  BOY 


CHAPTER  I 

NAMING   THE    BOY 

"  Naow,  Bub,  he  come  here,  an'  le'  me 
comb  his  hair,"  said  Huldah  Lovel,  seating 
herself  in  a  rockmg-chair  and  settling  rest- 
fidly  against  the  high  back,  holding  a  comb 
in  one  hand  and  a  brush  in  the  other,  where- 
with she  tapped  hghtly  on  the  polished  arms 
to  further  attract  the  attention  of  her  three- 
year-old  son.  He  was  so  busily  engaged  in 
the  construction  of  a  corncob  house  that  he 
only  heard  as  in  a  dream  his  mother's  call, 
till  it  was  more  imperatively  repeated,  and 
liis  father,  sitting  astride  a  pod  auger  on  a 
wooden-bottomed  chair,  shelling  seed  corn 
into  a  washtub,  tossed  a  cob  lightly  against 
the  child's  back  and  said  with  cheerful 
brevity,  — 


2  SAM'S   BOY 

"  Come,  hyper,  Bub." 

Then  the  little  boy  began  to  rise  reluc- 
tantly, slowly  getting  his  chubby  legs  under 
him,  and  while  yet  on  all  fours,  protesting, 
"  Bub  don't  want  hun  hair  comb.  Pull,  it 
do." 

"  Why,  yes  he  does.  Bub,  tew,  wanter  hev 
his  hair  all  slick,"  said  Aunt  Jerusha  Peggs, 
removing  her  eyes  from  the  stocking  she  was 
narrowing,  and  regarding  him  with  smihng 
benignity  over  the  rims  of  her  spectacles. 
"  It  looks  ju'  like  a  maouse  nes'  made  aouten 
corn  silks,  naow.  He  do'  wanter  hev  the 
mice  think  it 's  their'n,  I  know  he  don't." 

"  Course  he  don't,  an'  mother  won't  pull," 
Huldah  assured  him,  adding,  "  not  no  mor'n 
she  c'n  help.  My  sakes,  Bub,"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  drew  him  toward  her  and  cast  a  de- 
spairing glance  on  his  tangled  flaxen  poll, 
"  it 's  jest  a  mess  o'  witch  knots  !  "  The 
boy  shut  liis  eyes  and  set  his  milk  teeth  with 
heroic  resolution. 

"  Bub,  Bub,  Bub !  "  Sam  repeated  with 
disgusted  emphasis  as  he  detached  another 
of  the  ears  from  the  braid  of  their  own  husks 
and  began  crimching  off  the  kernels  on  the 


NAMING  THE   BOY  3 

auger.  "  By  the  gre't  horn  spoon !  that 
boy  '11  grow  up  nothin'  but  Bub  fust  we 
know.  He 's  got  tu  be  named,  that 's 
sartin." 

"  I  know  it,"  Hulclah  sighed,  pulling  at  a 
snarled  lock  of  finest  flax.  "  We  've  got  tu, 
I  know,  but  haow  be  we  a-goin'  tu?  " 

The  pain  of  the  present  infliction,  in  spite 
of  the  careful,  motherly  hand,  and  the  mys- 
terious terrors  of  that  which  impended  were 
too  much  for  the  child's  fortitude  to  with- 
stand, and  he  lifted  up  his  voice  in  a  protest 
that  ascended  to  a  piteous  wail :  — 

"  Me  don't  want  be  name.     It  hurt  I." 

His  mother  laughed  at  his  absurd  fear, 
and  his  father,  rasping  a  red  seed  ear  sav- 
agely on  the  auger,  wondered  "  why  in 
tunket  he  wa'n't  named  afore  he  knew  it." 

But  Aunt  Jerusha  cried  out  in  her  tender- 
est  voice :  — 

"  There,  there,  he  shan't  be  named  no- 
thin'  'at  '11  hurt  him,  dear  heart !  Why, 
don't  he  know  'at  ev'rybody  an'  ev'rything 
hes  tu  hev  a  name  ?  Why,  there  's  the  ol' 
haoun'  dawg,  his  name  's  Drive ;  and  the  ol' 
rhuster,  he  's  ol'  Red  ;  and  there 's  the  hens. 


4  SAM'S  BOY 

ol'  Cropple-craown  an'  ol'  High  Head,  an' 
Double-cackle,  an'  Rose-comb,  an'  Goose 
Face  ;  and  there  's  the  caows,  01'  Calerco 
an'  Young  Calerco,  an'  Spot  and  Line  Back, 
an'  I  d'  know  what  all,  and  the  oxen.  Broad 
an'  Bright.  My  land !  he  wants  to  hev  a 
name  as  much  as  a  dumb  critter." 

The  little  boy  stopped  crying  to  listen, 
and  in  the  interval  of  silence  the  familiar, 
imperative  thump  of  Gran'ther  Hill's  staJBf 
resounded  on  the  threshold,  and  as  his  thin 
shadow  partially  darkened  the  open  doorway 
his  dry,  cracked  voice  entered  before  him. 

"  Lord  a'mighty,  Huldy  Pur'n't'n  !  be  you 
a-skelpin'  that  'ere  young  un  ?  If  ye  be, 
you  'd  better  take  the  boocher  knife  an'  du 
it  decent,  Injun  fashion,  'stid  o'  rakin'  on't 
off  wi'  a  hetchel." 

"  No,  not  ezackly,  Cap'n  Hill.  Come 
right  in  an'  sed  daown,"  said  Huldah  cor- 
dially, as  she  hastily  beat  up  the  cushion  of 
an  easy-chair  for  the  visitor. 

"  Yes,  you  be  tew.  You  need  n't  tell 
me,"  turning  his  attention  to  Huldah  and 
the  boy  after  bestowing  a  "  Hope  I  see  ye 
weU  "  on  Aimt  Jerusha  and  a  nod  on  Sam. 


NAMING   THE   BOY  5 

"  I  hearn  the  pojipoose  holler,  an'  I  seen  you 
at  it,  a-sawin'  an'  a-clawin',  reg'lar  squaw 
fashi'n.  Come  here.  Bub,  an'  le'  me  show 
yer  marm  haow."  The  child  trudged  over 
to  the  gi-im  veteran,  as  if  assured  that  no 
worse  coidd  befall  him  at  his  hands  than  he 
was  now  suffering.  "  Ju'  look  at  that,  will 
ye  ?  "  Gran'ther  Hill  chuckled.  "  Thet  'ere 
boy  's  got  disarnment.  Any  o'  aour  folks 
would  ha'  told  ye  'at  they  'd  ruther  be  han- 
dled by  Injins  than  squaws.  Take  a  holt  o' 
a  han'f '1  o'  hair  juUuck  that,  an'  —  quk  "  — 
He  gathered  the  hair  of  the  child's  crown  and 
using  his  forefinger  as  a  knife  he  made  the 
motion  of  scalping,  accompanying  it  with  a 
sound  made  in  his  cheek.  "  Oh,  I  seen  the 
divils  du  it,  an'  I  seen  jes'  sech  hair  as  this 
'ere  a-hangin'  on  poles  over  the'  wigwams. 
Blast  'em  !  " 

"  Oh,"  Huldah  shuddered,  "  ain't  it  aw- 
ful? No,  Cap'n  Hill,  we  was  talkin'  'baout 
namin'  of  him,  an'  it  scairt  him." 

"  Wal,  it  hain't  no  wonder,  if  you  're 
a-goin'  tu  give  him  sech  infarnal  names  some 
folks  hes,  an'  as  many  on  'em.  By  the 
Lord    Harry !    I  'd    as    li'ves    be    shot    an' 


6  SAM'S   BOY 

skelped  tew  as  tu  hev  some  on  'em  fired  at 
me,  an'  piled  a-top  on  me.  You  le'  me 
take  liim  daown  tu  the  brook,  an'  I  '11  bab- 
tize  him  wi'  one  good  solid  name  'at  he 
need  n't  be  'shamed  on,  —  Seth  er  Remem- 
ber er  Peleg  er  Ethan  mebby,  arter  Warner 
er  Baker  er  Sunderlan'  er  Allen.  I  'd  name 
him  arter  myself  if  it  wa'n't  for  me  an' 
Jozeff's  boy  bein'  raomid  an'  gittin'  mixed 
up  wi'  him.  Josier  Lovel  'd  saound  al- 
mighty well." 

"  So  it  would,  Cap'n  Hill,"  said  Sam, 
"  an'  he  might  be  praoud  on't.  But  I  never 
bed  no  gre't  idee  o'  givin'  gre't  folkses 
names  tu  child'n  that  like  's  not  '11  turn  aout 
mighty  small  pertaters.  I  guess  we  'd  better 
name  him  arter  some  o'  aour  own  folks." 

"  You  need  n't  be  afeard  o'  him.  He 's 
a  mighty  good  un,  consid'rin'.  Don't  ye 
name  him  Prosper,  though,  for  the  shif'less- 
est  man  I  ever  see  was  named  Prosj)er ;  ner 
Noble,  ner  no  sech.  But  you  '11  make  a 
mess  on't  anyway.  Me  an'  Hiddy  '11  'tend 
tu  namin'  on  him." 

Aimt  Jerusha  laid  her  knitting  in  her  lap, 
and  assisted  meditation  with  slow  sniffs  at  a 


NAMING  THE   BOY  7 

pinch  of  sniuff  before  she  said,  "  Wal,  I  alius 
thought  it  was  a  pooty  good  way  tu  git  a 
name,  tu  jest  open  the  Bible  an'  pick  the 
fust  one  you  come  tu." 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  Gran'ther  HIU, 
"  some  on  'em  'ould  kiU  a  young  un  o'  his 
age  !  They  must  ha'  be'n  tough  ol'  critters 
tu  ha'  kerried  sech  names  as  some  on  'em." 

"  They  was  good  folks,"  said  Aunt  Je- 
rusha,  resuming  her  knitting. 

"  They  was,  hey  ?  Haow  do  you  know 
they  was  ?  Was  you  'quainted  wi'  'em  ? 
Wha'  'd  you  know  'baout  'em  ?  You  can't 
tell  nothin'  'baout  folks  by  what  you  hearn 
tell  on  'em.  You  got  tu  live  wi'  'em.  They 
won't  Stan'  it.  Come,  Huldy,  what  be  we 
a-goin'  tu  name  the  yovmg  un  ?  You  do' 
want  'im  strung  on  tu  a  name  longer  'n  he 
is,  du  ye  ?  " 

"  I  aUers  thought  I  sh'd  like  tu  give  Mm 
the  name  o'  some  o'  aour  follfs  ;  but  Sam's 
is  the  only  one  'at  I  hke,  an'  Sam  he  won't 
hev  it  that,"  Huldah  answered,  drawing  the 
boy  to  her  knee  again  and  caressing  his  elf 
locks  in  abstraction. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  her  husband ;  "  one  Sam 


8  SAM'S   BOY 

in  the  fam'ly  's  enough.  Your  Sams  don't 
never  'maount  tu  much  anyway." 

"  You  don't  never  want  tu  say  that  afore 
anybody  'at  fit  tu  Plattsburgh !  "  cried  Uncle 
Lisha,  appearing  at  the  inner  door  of  the 
shop,  wherein  till  now  he  had  been  an  un- 
seen listener.  "  Aom-  ol'  bear-fightin'  V'mont 
gin'al's  name  was  Samwel." 

"  An'  so  was  yer  gran'sir's,  Sam,"  Gran'- 
ther  HiU  supplemented,  "  an'  he  was  con- 
sid'able  of  a  man,  I  tell  ye.  He  kiUed  a 
painter  oncte,  —  plugged  him  right  'twixt  the 
eyes  as  slick  as  ever  ye  see." 

"  I  shoidd  like  to  name  him  Timothy," 
said  Sam ;  "  it  'ould  please  father  wonder- 
fid." 

"  Please  yer  Aunt  Isaac  !  "  said  the  vet- 
eran contemptuously.  "  Why  don't  ye  name 
him  H'ardsgrass  ?  It  allers  makes  me  think 
on't.  He  hain't  green.  Red  Top  'ould 
come  as  nigh,  for  he  's  light  complected." 

"  His  hair  hain't  one  particle  o'  red  in  't, 
Cap'n  Hill,"  Huldah  protested  with  earnest- 
ness as  she  fondly  stroked  the  child's  hair, 
and  said  in  a  softer  tone,  "  I  'd  ruther  hev 
him  named  Samwel  'an  anything  else." 


NAMING   THE   BOY  9 

"  It  '11  du  better  'n  Timerthy,"  Gran'ther 
Hill  conceded. 

"  It 's  a  good  name,  an'  good  men  lias  bore 
it,"  Uncle  Lislia  cordially  assented,  and 
added,  with  an  affectionate  glance  at  Sam, 
"  an'  one  does  yet." 

"  An'  he  '11  be  little  Sam  till  he 's  taller  'n 
I  be,  er  it'll  be  young  Sam  an'  ol'  Sam," 
said  Sam,  impatiently  tossing  away  a  naked 
cob  and  breaking  another  ear  from  the  braid. 
"  Le'  's  call  him  Timothy  an'  be  done  with 
it." 

"  Me  do'  want  er  be  gran'pa !  "  the  child 
whimpered  slu-iUy. 

"  Shet  yer  head !  "  Gran'ther  HiU  whistled 
hoarsely,  glowering  upon  the  boy.  "  You 
hain't  no  more  to  say  'baout  it  'an  if  you  was 
gittin'  a  spankin'.  If  you  're  a  good  boy 
an'  keep  yer  head  shet  you  won't  be  nob'dy's 
gran'pa  for  forty  year."  And  having  com- 
forted the  scared  child  with  this  assurance, 
he  addressed  the  parents  :  "  You  might  call 
him  Tom,  arter  aour  ol'  Gov'ner  Chittenden. 
He  was  a  clear  quill,  an'  could  see  f  urder  wi'  * 
his  one  eye  'an  most  could  wi'  tew.  An'  it 's 
a  chunky  name." 


10  SAM'S  BOY 

"  If  we  was  goin'  aout  o'  the  fam'ly  I  sh'cl 
like  Lisher  best  of  any,"  and  Huldah  looked 
toward  Aunt  Jerusha  for  supj)ort. 

The  old  woman  gave  a  little  gasp  of  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  and  smiled  serenely  upon 
both  mother  and  child,  but  before  she  could 
speak  her  approval  Uncle  Lisha  shouted: 
"  Good  airth  an'  seas,  don't  ye  du  it !  It 's 
hopesin  he  '11  make  a  better  man  'an  his  ol' 
Uncle  Lisher." 

"  If  he  makes  half  as  good  a  one  I  shall 
be  glad,"  said  Sam  heartily. 

"  Lisher  's  good  'nough,"  said  Gran'ther 
HiU.  "  Good  Lord !  anything  's  better  'n 
these  new-fangled  Don  Cairloses  an'  Pederos 
an'  Ju  Anns  an'  the  divil  knows  what  all. 
I  cal'late  they  name  the  childern  arter  their 
Merryner  rams.  When  I  was  raised  they  "  — 
He  stopped  short  and  turned  with  ner- 
vous haste  from  the  window  through  which 
he  was  gazing  reflectively  over  the  greening 
May  landscape.  "  Good  land,  le'  's  name 
him  quick  an'  not  tortur'  him  no  longer ! 
Here  's  a  silver  dollar  o'  my  last  pension 
money,  an'  we  'U  toss  it  up  for  a  name. 
What'U  ye  say?  Quick!  Thunder  an' 
guns,  why  don't  ye  speak  ?  " 


NAMING   THE   BOY  11 

"  I  do'  know  but  it 's  as  good  's  any  way," 
Sam  said  after  a  minute's  hesitation  ;  "  go 
ahead,  if  Hiddy  's  willin'." 

"  Why,  yes,  if  it  '11  only  be  Samwel," 
said  she,  laughing  nervously. 

"  AU  right,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  heads, 
it 's  Tim  ;  tails,  it 's  Sam  !  Here,  Lisher, 
you  tos't,  and  tos't  fair." 

"  It 's  tew  bad  a-chancin'  of  the  precious 
creatur's  name  that  way,"  Amit  Jerusha 
protested. 

"Go  'long  wi'  your  nonsense,  Jerushy 
Peggs.  'T  ain't  no  more  chance  'an  your 
way." 

"But  the  hand  o'  the  Lord  'ould  be  in 
that,"  she  said. 

"Let  her  fly!"  the  veteran  commanded, 
and  Uncle  Lisha,  poising  the  coin  on  his 
thumb,  flipped  it  to  the  ceiling.  As  it  fell 
all  gathered  eagerly  around  it. 

"  It 's  heads  I "  Sam  shouted  triumphantly. 

"  Stan'  back,"  Gran'ther  Hill  commanded; 
"  nob'dy  picks  it  up  only  you,  Lisher." 

Uncle  Lisha  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and 
got  down  on  all  fours  to  inspect  the  piece. 
"  Wal,  it  is  heads  !  "  he  declared. 


12  SAM'S   BOY 

"  An'  his  name  is  Timerthy,"  continued 
Gran'ther  Hill.  "  Ary  one  was  good  'nough, 
an'  I  don't  care,  so  long 's  he  's  got  one  on 
'em  sure." 

"  Oh,  dear,  it 's  too  bad,"  Huldah  groaned, 
"  I  did  want  to  hev  his  name  Samwel  so  !  " 

"  Wal,  if  you  feel  so  bad  'baout  it,  you 
c'n  call  him  Sam  an'  I  c'n  call  him  Tim. 
Timothy  Samwel.  Haow  '11  that  du  ?  "  Sam 
cried. 

"  Yes,  yes,  all  right,  on'y  settle  on't 
quick ! "  cried  Gran'ther  Hill  excitedly. 
"  Will  ye  hev  it  that  way  ?  Say,  quick  !  " 

"  We  c'n  both  call  him  Bub  just  the  same, 
only  that  won't  be  his  name,"  Sam  urged, 
and  Huldah  consented. 

"  There,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  he 's  named," 
the  old  ranger  shouted  exultantly,  and  shook 
his  staff  at  the  window,  "  an'  the'  can't  nob'dy 
help  it  naow !  His  gran'marm  's  a-comin', 
an'  if  she  'd  got  here  time  'nough,  jest  as 
like  's  not  she  'd  ha'  named  him  Eunice  in 
spite  on  us." 

Mrs.  Purington's  heavy  step  and  labored 
breathing  were  now  heard  at  the  back  door, 
where  she  presently  entered  and  stood  a  mo- 


NAMING  THE  B0Y  13 

ment  curiously  surveying  the  now  silent 
group. 

"  Wal,"  she  asked  with  cheerful  severity, 
"  be  you  a-hevin'  a  Quaker  meetin'  ?  If  I  'd 
ha'  knowed  I  was  comin'  tu  one,  I  'd  ha' 
fetched  Joel  Bartlett  an'  Jemimy  along." 

"  Why,  no,  mother,  not  ezackly,"  Hiddah 
answered,  rising  and  offering  her  chair  to  the 
visitor,  while  the  brush  and  comb  spilled 
from  her  lap  with  a  loud  clatter.  Then, 
when  no  one  else  would  speak,  she  continued 
with  some  hesitation,  "  We  be'n  a-namin' 
Bub." 

Mrs.  Purington  strove  to  arrest  her  de- 
scent into  the  chair,  but  knees  and  elbows 
slowly  gave  way  and  she  sank  into  it  with  a 
gasping  sigh.  Then,  drawing  in  material 
for  another  sigh,  she  regarded  her  daughter 
with  ojDcn-eyed,  gaping  incredulity. 

"Yes,"  said  Huldah  in  a  spirited  voice, 
"  we  named  him  Timothy  Samwel,  an'  I  say 
it's  a  real  nice  name.     Don't  you,  mother?" 

"  It 's  an  almighty  good  name,"  Gran'ther 
Hill  cried,  emphasizing  the  confirmation  with 
a  thump  of  his  staff,  "  on'y  there  's  twicte 
too  much  on't !  " 


14  '    SAM'S   BOY 

"  An'  you  've  be'n  an'  named  that  child," 
sighed  Mrs.  Purington,  "  an'  not  said  one 
word  on't  to  the  on'y  gran'ma  he  's  got  or 
ever  likely  tii  hev,  an'  not  knowin'  'at  the' 
ever  '11  be  another  boy  tu  name !  Not  me 
nor  one  o'  my  folks  mentioned  in  it  oncte, 
nor  yet  a  Pur'n't'n,  which  I  sh'ld  think  you  'd 
all  be  'shamed  o'  yourselves  a-comin'  in  in- 
couragin'  sech  duin's,  but  you  hain't,  not  one 
on  ye."  She  cast  a  watery  glare  upon  the 
whole  company,  but  resolutely  withheld  her 
tears  while  she  hurriedly  groped  in  her  deep 
pocket  for  her  handkercliief  and  bottle  of 
hartshorn. 

"  That  'ere  's  tarnal  harnsome  seed  corn 
you're  shellin',"  Gran'ther  HiU  remarked; 
"  twelve  rowed,  hain't  it  ?  " 

Sam  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"  Talkin'  'baout  seed  corn  at  sech  a  time, 
when  an  immortal  soul 's  be'n  gi'n  a  name  !  " 
Mrs.  Purinffton  exclaimed  in  a  voice  smoth- 
ered  by  emotion  and  her  handkerchief.  "  An' 
sech  a  name  !  Timerthy  Sammywel  Lovel ! 
Not  a  Pur'n't'n  nor  a  Borden  mentioned  ! 
Jest  clear  Lovel !  " 

"  Wal,  Lovel 's  his  name,"  said  Sam. 


NAMING  THE   BOY  15 

"  An'  his  natiir',  I  hope,  makin'  my  man- 
ners til  his  mother,"  Gran'ther  Hill  added. 
"  You  take  this  'ere  dollar,  Lovel,  an'  punch  a 
hole  in  't  an'  hev  the  boy  wear  it  raound  his 
neck,  for  tu  make  him  remember  his  name." 

"  He  'd  ortu  forgit  it.  Timerthy  Sammy- 
wel !  If  that  hain't  a  name  !  " 

"  You  keep  a-sayin'  on't  over  long  'nough 
an'  you  '11  git  wonted  to  't,"  Gran'ther  Hill 
chuckled  mahciously. 

"  Me  git  wonted  to 't !  I  won't  never  call 
him  it,  you  see  'f  I  du." 

"  Call  him  Samerthy  Timuwel  if  it  '11 
make  it  seem  any  better  tu  ye.  I  da'  say 
his  father  'n'  mother  won't  care  so  long  's 
it 's  all  hove  in,"  Gran'ther  said,  but  Mrs. 
Purington  treated  this  suggestion  with  the 
silent  contempt  its  triviality  merited. 

"  I  don't  see  what  makes  you  so  sot  ag'in 
it, mother,"  said  Huldah.  "We  couldn't  let 
him  go  on  so  forever,  him  two  year  ol',  goin' 
on  three,  an'  folks  a-saying  we  could  n't  find 
no  name  good  enough." 

"  Yes,  an'  if  you  'd  waited  half  an  haour 
it  would  n't  ha'  killed  nobVly,  an'  I  'd  ha' 
fetched  you  a  name  'at  'ould  saound  some- 


16  SAM'S   BOY 

haow  when  lie  gits  tu  be  a  minister  er  a 
darkter,  er  goes  to  the  leegislatur',  an'  'ould 
look  somehaow  in  the  paper  an'  on  his  twum- 
stun  when  he  gits  merried  an'  when  he  dies. 
You  need  n't  ask  me,  for  I  won't  tell  ye.  I  'm 
goin'  tu  save  it  for  Sis  ag'in  she  merries  an' 
hes  children,  which  I  hope  she  won't  never." 
Mrs.  Purington  searched  for  her  pocket  with 
her  left  hand,  and  with  the  other  returned 
the  handkerchief  and  smelling  bottle  to  its 
depths  with  rapidly  repeated  thrusts,  then 
drew  back  her  feet  and  grasped  the  arms  of 
her  chair  with  deliberate  intention  of  arising, 
but  she  was  stopped  by  the  sudden  roar  of 
Uncle  Lisha. 

"  Good  airth  an'  seas !  what  be  you 
a-makin'  sech  a  rumpus  'baout  a  young  un's 
name  for  ?  If  he  's  a  good  boy  his  name  '11 
be  good,  an'  if  he 's  a  bad  boy  George  Wash- 
in't'n  would  n't  saound  good  wi'  him  a-bearin' 
on't.  We  hain't  much  more  'n  worms  any- 
ways, an'  it  hain't  but  precious  leetle  'caount 
what  names  we  hev  while  we  're  squirmin' 
'raound  here.  The'  hain't  one  name  in  ten 
thaousand  but  '11  be  forgot  a  hundered  years 
f'm  naow,   an'   folks  'at  sees  'em  scratched 


NAMING  THE  BOY  17 

on  gre't  stuns  '11  wonder  why  anyb'dy  both- 
ered tu  du  it,  more  'n  they  will  who  we  was 
or  what  we  done.  'Baout  all  names  is  good 
for  is  to  tell  us  f'm  one  'nother,  so  don't  fret 
your  gizzard  'baout  the  boy's  name,  Eunice 
Pur'n't'n." 

Mrs.  Purington  arose  ponderously  and 
went  over  to  the  window  overlooking  the 
garden,  where  Timothy  Lovel  was  kneeling 
on  a  board  carefully  sov\ang  the  beds.  After 
some  moments  of  critical  scrutiny  of  the 
work,  with  the  rim  of  her  deep  bonnet  held 
against  the  panes,  she  said  in  a  tone  of 
resignation :  — 

"  Huldy,  your  rhubub  's  for'arder  'n  aourn, 
an'  I  guess  I  '11  go  an'  git  a  han'f '1  tu  make 
him  some  sass.     He  's  dretf'l  fond  on't." 

"  Yes,  du,  mother,"  cried  Huldah,  "  an' 
1 11  go  with  you  !  Bub,  don't  he  want  tu  go 
'long  tew?" 

"  I  guess  I  might  as  well  go  wi'  the  women 
folks  an'  Bub,"  Aunt  Jerusha  said,  winding 
the  yarn  carefully  around  the  needles  and 
sticking  them  into  the  ball  of  yarn  before 
she  laid  her  work  aside.  Then  she  followed 
into  the  garden. 


18  SAM'S  BOY 

"  Wal,  there ! "  Sam  said  in  mingled 
amusement  and  vexation,  "  Bub  he  is  yet, 
an'  Bub  I  guess  he  '11  be,  till  he  gits  over  it 
in  the  nat'ral  way." 

"By  the  Lord  Harry,  he 's  named,  an'  the' 
can't  nob'dy  on-name  him  naow,"  Gran'ther 
Hill  declared.  "  I  did  n't  keer  a  primin'  o' 
paowder  what  name  you  gin  him,  so  you  gin 
it,  but  I  swear  I  don't  b'lieve  in  one  pusson, 
an'  she  a  woman,  a-bossin'  all  the  fun'als  an' 
namin'  all  the  young  uns  in  Dan  vis,  an'  I  'U 
cut  her  corners  whenever  I  can.  An'  naow 
if  you  've  got  some  cider  as  good  for  the  time 
o'  year  as  it  gin'ally  is,  I  '11  m'isten  my  mor- 
tial  clay,  for  barrin'  your  mother-in-law's 
weepin',  this  hes  be'n  an  almighty  dry 
chris'nin'." 


CHAPTER  II 

TWO   HAPPY   COMRADES 

When  the  little  boy  who  was  still  called 
Bub,  though  he  had  actually  acquired  a  name, 
had  left  off  frocks  and  proudly  put  on  his 
first  pair  of  boots,  of  the  old  cobbler's  most 
skillful  make.  Uncle  Lisha  thought  him 
worthy  of  more  particular  attention,  and  be- 
gan to  instruct  him  in  the  art  of  being  a 
boy. 

One  soft  blue  and  golden  morning  the 
plover  was  waihng  his  heart  out  in  the  p,as- 
ture,  hovering  on  arched  wings  above  the 
springing  sward  that  shone  beneath  the  azure 
vault  like  another  sky  of  green  with  its  span- 
gles of  dandelion  stars.  The  red-headed 
woodpecker  was  hammering,  squawking,  and 
croaking  in  the  tall  elm,  and  now  and  then 
turning  flycatcher  to  make  an  airy  loop  and 
gather  in  a  passing  insect.  Down  by  the 
brook  the  thronging  blackbirds  gurgled  and 


20  SAM'S  BOY 

chattered  louder  than  the  pebble-bottomed 
water  that  foamed  and  sparkled  beneath 
them. 

The  old  man  gazed  wistfully  out  of  the 
open  door  and  eagerly  sniffed  the  breath  of 
sweet  fresh  air  that  drifted  in  among  the 
odors  of  leather,  wax,  and  stale  tobacco 
smoke.  The  more  merrily  the  woodpecker's 
taps  resounded,  the  more  plaintively  the 
plover  wailed,  and  the  louder  the  blackbirds 
gurgled  and  chattered,  the  more  listlessly 
the  hammer  fell  on  the  lapstone,  and  the 
more  abstractedly  the  old  shoemaker's  eyes 
wandered  from  his  work  out  across  the  green 
fields  to  the  climbing  sweeps  of  woodland 
and  the  beetling  crests  of  the  ancient  hills. 

In  spite  of  all  virtuous  resolutions  his 
heart  would  go  a-loafing  and  he  was  fain  to 
follow  it  out  of  the  shop,  though  customers 
went  barefoot.  Then,  when  no  more  than  a 
plume  of  a  butterfly's  wing  was  needed  to 
tip  the  scale,  there  was  a  quick  patter  of 
little  feet  along  the  path,  and  the  child  ap- 
peared at  the  door  panting  with  excitement 
as  he  held  forth  a  new-found  prize,  —  a  big, 
fat  angleworm  that  wriggled  and  squirmed 


TWO   HAPPY  COMRADES  21 

about  the  soil-staiued  fiiigers  no  bigger  than 
itself. 

"  Oh,  see  what  me  got,  Unc'  Lisher ! 
Great  big  worm.  An'  me  want  to  go  fishin' 
right  o£e !  " 

"  So  you  clu,  dear  heart ;  an'  so  you  shall 
if  mammy  '11  let  us  !  "  the  old  man  shouted, 
never  gladder  of  a  pretext  to  quit  hammer, 
last,  and  lapstone ;  and  tiunbling  them  un- 
ceremoniously on  the  floor  with  a  clattering 
thud  as  they  rebounded  from  the  heap  of 
leather  chips.  "  Ju'  look  a'  that,  naow !  "  he 
said,  regarding  with  admiration  the  brave 
grip  of  the  little  fingers  on  the  lithe  worm. 
"  If  that  'ere  was  a  snake  not  no  bigger, 
haow  quick  he  'd  diop  it !  It 's  nat'ral,  an' 
the  boy  is  a  borned  fisherman.  He  shan't 
be  nipped  in  the  bud  if  I  can  help  it." 

Uncle  Lisha  sloughed  off  his  leathern 
apron  upon  the  leathern-seated  bench  and 
went  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Huldy  !  "  he  called,  hearing  the  mother 
busy  in  the  pantry  above  the  splash  of  his 
scrubbing  in  the  sink,  "  I  wanter  take  the 
boy  a-fishin'.     He  's  got  his  bait  " — 

"  Why,   Uncle    Lisher,   he 's   tew    leetle, 


22  SAM'S  BOY 

hain't  he?"  Huldy  half  protested,  appear- 
ing at  the  door  with  whitened  hands  and  a 
smutch  of  flour  on  her  face. 

"  Not  tu  go  along  wi'  me,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  Why,  Sammy 's  a  horned  fisherman 
if  ever  the'  was  one.  He  's  be'n  an'  got  him 
a  worm  half  as  long  as  his  arm,  an'  he 's 
a-teasin'  tu  go.  I  tell  yer,  fishin'  's  good  for 
a  boy.  It  I'arns  'em  patience,  an'  dependin' 
on  the'selves,  an'  obsarvin',  an'  a-thinkin' 
aout  things.  The'  ham't  no  fool  never  goin' 
tu  make  much  of  a  fisherman.  Naow,  you 
du  him  up  a  maou'ful  t'  eat,  an'  we  '11  be  off 
tu  rights.  I  've  got  it  in  my  bones  tu  go 
fishin'  tu-day." 

Huldah  made  no  further  objection,  but 
began  prejDaring  a  bountiful  lunch  for  the 
two,  while  they  went  behind  the  woodshed 
with  an  old  spade  and  a  battered  tin  tobacco 
can.  Uncle  Lisha  turned  up  great  clods  of 
moist  soil  and  pounded  them  to  pieces  with 
the  back  of  the  spade,  and  Sammy,  eager- 
eyed  and  alert,  pounced  on  every  worm  that 
was  uncovered,  learning  to  pinch  the  black 
heads  and  draw  forth  with  a  humoring  pull 
such  as  clung  to  the  stiff  soil.     Now  he  nib- 


TWO   HAPPY   COMRADES  23 

bled  a  leaf  of  catnip,  or  held  uj)  a  young  leaf 
of  motherwort  to  shine  yellow-gi-een  between 
his  eyes  and  the  sun. 

"  There,  we  've  got  enough,  duekie,"  said 
Lisha,  straightening  his  back  before  shoul- 
dering the  spade,  and  leading  the  way  to 
the  house. 

They  presently  set  forth,  Sammy  holding 
on  to  one  big  waxy  fmger  and  making  his 
short  legs  fly  briskly  to  keep  ujd  with  the 
longer  strides  of  his  companion.  They  made 
their  way  toward  the  merry  babble  of  the 
brook  where  it  glistened  in  the  full  light  of 
the  sun  as  it  came  out  of  the  dark  woods, 
and  leaped  over  an  obstruction  of  logs  into 
a  gray-green  and  golden  water.  When 
Uncle  Lisha  had  cut  and  trimmed  a  shapely 
pole  for  his  pupil  and  affixed  the  line  and 
carefully  baited  the  hook  he  approached  the 
pool  with  the  greatest  caution,  cast  in  the 
hook  and  directed  Sammy  to  do  the  same. 
There  was  a  wild  rush,  and  the  two  hooks 
were  struck  simultaneously  by  an  electric 
shock ;  there  was  a  twitch  and  puU,  two  up- 
ward flying  streaks  of  iridescent  light,  and 
two  gaping  trout  were  threshing  the  dry, 
dead  leaves  among  the  squirrel  cups. 


24  SAM'S   BOY 

The  boy's  exultation  over  his  exploit  was 
as  great  a  delight  to  Uncle  Lisha,  who  saw 
his  own  experience  repeated  and  in  some 
measure  felt  the  thrill  of  his  first  capture, 
so  long  ago,  yet  only  yesterday,  with  all  the 
hard  realities  of  a  long  life  but  as  a  night  of 
troubled  dreams. 

"  Where 's  the  little  fish's  mammy,  Unc' 
Lisher  ?  "  the  child  asked,  beginning  to  pity 
his  gaping  victun. 

"Oh,  I  do'  know.  Mebby  someb'dy 's 
ketched  her,  an'  mebby  she  's  in  there  a-won- 
derin'  what's  come  o'  him." 

"  You  s'pose  she  's  sorry,  Unc'  Lisher  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  not.  Bub.  She'd  jes'  as 
soon  eat  him  as  not.  Mebby  she  's  sorry  she 
did  n't." 

"  Don't  mammy  fish  ta'  care  o'  their  little 
boys  ?  Birds  does.  I  seen  'em,  —  the  robins 
in  the  ai)ple  tree  does." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  they  do,  —  not  as 
your  mammy  does.  Le'  me  bait  yer  hook, 
Sammy,  —  there,  chuck  it  int'  the  bile  ag'in. 
He  was  hatched  aouten  an  aig  'way  up  in 
the  shallers,  an'  he  had  tu  look  aout  for  his- 
self  as  soon  as  he  was  borned  ;  an'  a  tough 


TWO   HAPPY  COMRADES  25 

time  he  hed  on't,  I  tell  ye.  One  clay  a  craw- 
fish jumped  aouten  a  hole  an'  made  a  grab 
for  him  an'  ketched  one  o'  his  brothers. 
Another  time  a  kingfisher  come  a-rattlin' 
alons:  overhead  an'  stood  stock-still  in  the 
air,  right  over  him  an'  a  mess  o'  others,  an' 
then  come  daown  kerslosh  right  amongst 
'em,  head  fust ;  an'  one  leetle  feller  got  in 
his  big  bill;  an'  some  on  'em  was  washed 
ashore,  high  an'  diy ;  an'  some  went  a-scootin' 
ev'ry  which  way,  so  scairt  they  did  n't  know 
which  eend  was  a-goin'  fust. 

"  Then  one  day,  when  he  got  bigger,  he 
was  swimmin'  along  comf'table,  lookin'  up 
tu  see  'f  the'  wa'n't  a  fly  or  suthin'  t'  eat, 
an'  he  seen  a  black  head  a-pokin'  aout  above 
a  rock,  an'  tew  leetle  black  eyes  a-shinin'  at 
him,  an'  then  daown  it  all  come,  an'  a  long 
slim  body  arter,  ju'  like  a  black  arrer,  an' 
arter  the  leetle  traout  that  went  a-skivin' 
this  way  an'  that,  until  he  run  'n  under  a 
stun  an'  got  away  ;  an'  that  'ere  was  a  mink. 
So  that  'ere  leetly  traouty  he  hved  'long, 
one  way  'n'  other,  sometimes  a-gittin'  a  water 
snail,  an'  sometimes  a  worm  'at  come  a-tum- 
blin'  an'  squirmin'    'long  the    bottom ;    an' 


26  SAM'S  BOY 

sometimes  a  grasshopper  'at  ondertook  tu 
jump  acrost  the  brook  at  tew  jumps  an' 
never  done  it ;  an'  sometimes  it  was  a  fly 
a-buzzin'  along  on  top  o'  the  water,  an'  that 
was  the  most  fun ;  or  a  white  miller  in  the 
evenin'  that  made  his  thrut  as  dusty  as  the 
middle  o'  the  rhud,  so  's  he  hed  tu  drink 
more  water  'n  he  wanted  tu ;  or  mebby  it 
was  a  big  maou'ful  of  a  bumblebee  'at  gin 
him  a  jab  in  the  maouth  as  he  went  along 
daown,  —  an'  that  wa'n't  so  much  fun. 

"  He  got  so  he  thought  he  knowed  it 
abaout  all,  when  one  day  along  come  an  ol' 
man  an'  a  leetle  mite  of  a  boy  'at  had  n't 
never  be'n  a-fishin'  afore ;  an'  he  drojjped  a 
worm  int'  the  water,  an'  that  'ere  traout  he 
grabbed  it,  an'  next  he  knowed  he  was  a-flyin' 
aouten  the  water  hke  a  bird,  an'  lit  in  the 
grass,  where  he  never  was  afore  ;  an'  then  he 
wished  he  lied  n't ;  an'  arter  the  leetle  boy 
got  over  his  fust  bein'  tickled  I  guess  he 
wished  he  hed  n't,  tew." 

"  Was  that  '  Bub,'  Unc'  Lisher  ?  " 
"  Wal,  mebby  so.     I  guess  it 's  aU  right ; 
he  was  made  a^puppes  tu  be  eat  some  time 
or  'nother,  an'  it 's  jest  as  well  for  him  tu 


TWO   HAPPY  COMRADES  27 

hev  liis  insides  took  aout  for  a  crow  t'  eat,  an' 
his  head  cut  off  for  a  mink  t'  eat,  an'  his 
body  fried  brown  by  Mis'  Lovel  for  a  good 
leetle  boy  t'  eat,  as  for  him  tu  be  swallered 
hull  by  a  mink  or  a  kingfisher  an'  not  du 
any  good  tu  only  one.  Yep  !  Good  airth 
an'  seas !  I  guess  here  's  his  mother !  " 
And  Uncle  Lisha  tore  a  big  trout  from  the 
pool  and  dropped  it  beside  the  other. 

"  I  g-uess  not,"  said  Sanmiy  mournfully. 
"  She  don't  act  a  mite  glad  tu  see  him,  but 
jes'  slaps  him  an'  jumps  on  him.  Oh,  I  got 
another,  Unc'  'Lisher !  "  and  he  fell  to  re- 
joicing over  a  fresh  victim. 

So  the  two  hapj)y  comrades  pursued  the 
gentle  craft,  stealing  along  the  brink  of  the 
brook  where  it  cooled  its  waters  in  the 
scented  shade  of  evergi'een,  and  wound  among 
sprawling  alders,  and  babbled  merrily  over 
pebbly  shallows,  braiding  itself  in  a  many- 
stranded  ribbon  of  silver,  gold  and  blue  and 
green,  caught  from  sun  and  sky,  overhanging 
tree,  sheen  of  sands  and  pebbles. 

They  met  a  winged  fisherman  announcing 
his  progress  with  noisy  clatter,  and  turning 
back  as  he  came  upon  his  plodding  rivals  3 


28  SAM'S   BOY 

and  also  a  mink  gliding  along  behind  the 
rooty  screen  of  the  bank,  lithe  and  sinuous 
as  a  serpent,  now  disappearing,  now  thrusting 
his  vicious  head  from  a  hole,  now  galloping 
across  a  point,  now  taking  a  pool,  swift  and 
silent  as  a  fish. 

Concerning  both  Uncle  Lisha  promised 
stories  to  be  told  some  evening  or  rainy  day ; 
and  at  last,  having  all  the  fish  they  needed, 
strung  on  slender  withes  of  elm.  Uncle  Lisha 
proposed  that  they  should  taste  the  first 
fruits  of  their  skill.  Four  trout  were  dressed, 
a  fire  burned  to  a  rosy  bed  of  coals,  the  fish 
spitted  on  sharpened  sticks,  each  with  a  slice 
of  jjork  laid  inside  him,  and  so  broiled,  dif- 
fusing a  fragrance  that  might  awaken  hun- 
ger well  laid  to  rest,  but  sharpening  theirs, 
not  yet  a  jot  abated. 

It  was  Sammy's  first  taste  of  outdoor 
cookery,  and  its  new,  unaccustomed  relish 
was  never  forgotten.  Years  afterward,  by 
camp-fires  under  Southern  stars,  in  the  hun- 
ger of  prisons,  the  odor  of  the  broiling  trout, 
the  breath  of  the  May-day  air,  the  ever- 
changing  yet  monotonous  babble  of  the  brook, 
came  back  to  him  through  all  the  years  of 


TWO   HAPPY   COMRADES  29 

change,  over  all  the  weary,  weary  miles  that 
lay  between  him  and  childhood  and  home. 

What  a  proud  boy  he  was  when  he  showed 
his  catch  at  home,  and  how  sweet  the  un- 
stinted praise  that  grandfather,  Aunt  Je- 
rusha,  father,  and  mother  gave  the  little 
fisherman ! 


CHAPTER  III 

A   RAINY    DAY    IN    THE    SHOP 

One  day  when  the  grass  was  growing  per- 
ceptibly in  the  steady  downpour  of  rain, 
Sammy  grew  tired  of  watching  the  ceaseless 
leaping  of  a  countless  host  of  little  men  as  he 
imagined  the  upspringing  drops  in  the  pud- 
dles to  be,  none  of  whom  ever  stayed  long 
enough  for  liim  to  get  the  least  acquainted 
with,  nor  to  individualize,  as  he  could  the 
robin  and  the  sjDarrow  that  came  down  to 
the  same  puddle  to  drink  and  bathe.  He 
would  have  known  them  the  next  day,  for 
all  their  looking  so  blurred  and  distorted  as 
they  were  by  the  streaked  wash  of  the  win- 
dow panes,  and  they  put  him  in  mind  of 
something  that  made  him  rvm  into  the  shop 
to  his  friend  and  boon  companion. 

The  old  man  was  closing  up  the  seam  of  a 
boot  leg  with  long,  strong  pulls  of  two  waxed 
ends,  the  crooked  awl  going  out  on  one  side 


A  RAINY   DAY  IN   THE   SHOP         31 

and  jabbing  the  air,  then  coming  back  and 
stabbing  the  leather,  the  threads  following 
with  a  squeaking  swish  and  a  tight-drawn 
tug. 

"  HeUo,  my  man  !  An'  what 's  he  a-doin' 
on  this  wet  mornin'  ?  "  he  accosted  his  wel- 
come visitor. 

"  Oh,  not  much ;  only  watchin'  the  little 
men  a-jumpin'  up  tu  ketch  the  rain,  an'  the 
birds  a-washin'  off  the'  feathers  ;  an'  now  I 
come  for  you  to  tell  me  a  story.  You  said 
you  would  some  rainy  day,  abaout  them 
fishin'  birds  an'  the  mink,  —  an'  I  guess  this 
is  that  kind  of  a  day." 

"  Wal,  yes ;  I  most  guess  I  did.  Le'  me 
see  !  "  He  scratched  his  head  thoughtfidly 
with  the  awl.  "  Was  't  the  kingfisher  ? 
Yes.  Wal,  the'  was  tew  on  'em  borned 
right  on  this  brook,  in  a  hole  in  the  bank, 
on  a  mess  o'  fish  bones  for  a  nest,  I  've  hearn 
tell  by  them  'at 's  seen  'em.  An'  here  they 
lived  an'  growed  up  one  summer,  quicker  'n 
what  leetle  boys  does,  'at  takes  twenty  year, 
an'  they  I'arned  tu  fish  as  handy,  'thaout 
usin'  any  hook  an'  line  or  worms,  but  jest 
the'    biUs  an'  the'  wings,  a-hangin'  in    the 


32  SAM'S  BOY 

air  over  a  fish  'at  did  n't  think  no  more 
harm  on  'em  'an  of  a  thistledown  a-floatin' 
by,  till,  kerslosh !  daown  come  bill  an'  feath- 
ers atop  on  him,  an'  in  he  went  along  wi'  a 
dozen  others,  an'  a-sailin'  off  over  the  water 
afore  he  'd  done  a-kickin'. 

"  When  it  come  along  in  the  fall  o'  the 
year  an'  got  cold  'nough  so  't  the'  was  spikes 
of  ice  made  along  the  banks,  these  tew  king- 
fishers started  off  on  a  long  journey,  fol- 
lowin'  the  streams  saouth,  a-stoppin'  tu  ketch 
'em  a  fish  when  they  got  hungry,  a-seein' 
shell-duck  a-scootin'  arter  'em  under  water, 
an'  loons  a-divin',  an'  fish-hawks  a-swoopin' 
aouten  the  sky,  an'  men  a-ketchin'  on  'em  in 
all  ways,  so  it  seemed  as  if  the'  could  n't  be 
a  fish  left  nowheres  for  another  year,  an'  so 
at  last  they  come  to  a  country  where  the 
rivers  never  froze  an'  the  fields  was  allers 
green.  There  was  black  men  and  women 
a-worfiin'  in  'em  an'  a-fishin'  in  the  streams, 
an'  one  day  as  they  went  clatterin'  along  a 
river,  one  on  'em  lit  on  a  stake  nigh  where 
tew  black  men  was  a-fishin'  an'  one  on  'em 
says,  '  There 's  one  o'  aour  kingfishers,  an' 


A  RAINY  DAY  IN  THE  SHOP         33 

when  he  goes  north  in  the  spring,  I  'm 
a-goin'  tu  f oiler  him,  come  what  ^\^ll.' 

"  An'  sure  'nough  so  he  did.  When  the 
birds  looked  back  they  seen  him,  fur  or  nigh, 
—  sometimes  in  a  boat,  sometimes  a-wadin' 
when  the'  was  bloodhounds  arter  him,  goin' 
up  streams  when  they  run  saouth,  an'  daown 
'em  when  they  run  north,  till  he  come  clean 
here,  an'  then  the  black  man  bid  'em  good-by, 
an'  thanked  'em,  an'  another  man  'at  I  know 
put  him  intu  a  boat  an'  he  went  off  tu  Can- 
ady,  where  Ann  Twine  come  from." 

"  That 's  a  real  nice  story,  Unc'  Lisher ; 
an'  naow  won't  you  tell  me  another  ?  "  said 
Sammy,  settling  more  comfortably  on  a 
squeaky  roll  of  sole  leather. 

"  Wal,  the'  was  a  leetle  boy,  't  was  as 
hmigi'y  for  stories  as  a  kingfisher  is  for  min- 
nies,  an'  you  could  n't  fill  him  up  no  easier," 
said  the  old  man. 

"Not  that,  but  another,  Unc'  Lisher!" 
the  child  pleaded. 

"  Wal,  I  '11  tell  ye  a  story 

'  'Baout  ol'  Mother  Morey, 
An'  naow  my  story  's  begun.' " 


34  SAM'S  BOY 

"  Oh,  not  that  ol'  story,"  Sammy  inter- 
rupted, kicking  out  impatiently,  "bnt  one 
about  a  mink.  Oh,  please,  Unc'  Lisher, 
it  rains  like  everything  !  " 

"  Wal,  so  I  will,  dear  heart ;  an'  it  is  tew 
had  tu  plague  a  poor  leetle  boy  'at  hain't  a 
duck  an'  can't  go  aout  an'  play  in  the  mud 
puddles,"  said  the  relenting  raconteur,  clean- 
ing his  pipe  with  the  awl,  filling  and  light- 
ing it  wliile  he  planned  a  beginning  and 
trusted  to  luck  for  a  happy  ending. 

"  Once  the'  was  a'  ol'  man  mink  an'  his 
wife  lived  in  a  hole  in  the  bank  o'  Stunny 
Brook,  —  thet  's  aour  brook,  —  'n  under  the 
rhuts  of  a  big  maple  tree,  an'  they  wa'n't 
the  pleasantest  o'  neighbors  for  the  fish  an' 
birds  an'  frogs  'at  lived  nigh  'em,  I  '11  tell 
ye,  'cause  they  was  a  hungry  lot,  an'  more  'n 
all  that,  killed  when  they  wa'n't  hungry. 
Why,  they'd  ketch  an'  kill  frogs  till  they 
got  a  pile  they  could  n't  see  one  'nother  over, 
an'  they  was  allers  a-robbin'  birds'  nests  o' 
aigs  an'  young  ;  an'  fish  —  my  land  !  the' 
wa'n't  no  sati'fyin'  on  'em.  An'  they  'd 
kill  mushrat  tew,  bigger  'n  they  was.  An' 
when  they  had  a  fam'ly  o'  young    uns   tu 


A  RAINY   DAY  IN   THE   SHOP         35 

feed,  it  was  ridic'lous  the  way  them  mink 
slaughtered  right  an'  left. 

"  One  day  in  June  a  man  'at  I  know  come 
along  there  an'  he  seen  where  them  mink 
had  killed  ten  young  pa'tridges,  an'  he  was 
mad,  an'  says  he,  '  I  '11  pay  you  for  that  in 
the  fall  when  your  fur  gits  good,  for  them 
was  my  pa'tridges.'  An'  so  when  cold 
weather  come  he  took  some  traps  an'  sot  'em 
some  in  holler  lawgs  an'  some  in  holes,  an' 
one  in  under  the  big  maple,  an'  he  baited 
'em  all  wi'  mushrat,  which  no  mink  can't 
never  go  by,  an'  when  he  went  'raound  tu 
'em  he  had  three  o'  them  black  thieves,  an' 
he  jest  knocked  'em  in  the  head  and  stretched 
the'  skins  on  some  boards,  an'  took  'em 
daown  tu  Clapham's  an'  sol'  'em.  An'  I 
expec'  he  '11  buy  a  jackknife  wi'  some  o'  the 
money,  for  his  name  is  Sam  Lovel,  an'  his 
leetle  boy  wants  one  tu  dress  his  fish  with. 

"  Naow,  I  see  a  shadblow  tree  over  there 
in  the  woods  't  looks  ju'  like  a  haycock 
ketched  in  a  snowstorm,  an'  'long  in  June, 
when  the  bar'ies  gits  ripe,  me  an'  Sammy  'U 
go  an'  git  some  on'  'em,  an'  mebby  shoot 
a  wild  pigeon,  if  daddy  'U  go  'long  wi'  his 


36  SAM'S  BOY 

gun.     An'  that 's  stories  'nough  for  one  rainy 
day,  hain't  it?  " 

Sanmiy  unwillingly  assented,  and  went 
back  to  the  kitchen  to  comfort  himseK  with 
a  slice  of  bread  spread  thickly  with  maple 
sugar. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    VISIT    TO    GEAN'tHER    HILL 

One  morning  an  air  of  mystery  pervaded 
tlie  Lovel  homestead.  The  mistress  was  not 
visible,  but  some  neighborly  women  appeared 
to  have  usurped  her  place.  Mrs.  Purington 
was  there,  with  Maria  Hill  and  Mrs.  Briggs 
obeying  her  orders  as  she  gave  them  out 
from  her  rocking-chair,  all  officious  and 
domineering,  as  it  seemed  to  Sammy,  while 
the  men  of  the  household  were  correspond- 
ingly meek  and  subdued. 

Dr.  Root,  the  Thompsonian  practitioner, 
was  present,  superintending  the  steeping  of 
herbs  on  the  stove,  and  his  horse  was  put  in 
the  stable  as  if  the  period  of  his  stay  was 
indefinite.  Breakfast  was  served  and  eaten 
with  dispatch,  as  if  it  were  quite  a  secondary 
affair,  and  then  Uncle  Lisha  invited  Sammy 
to  go  with  him  to  Joseph  Hill's,  and  the 
pair  trudged  away  well  content  to  be  in  each 


38  SAM'S   BOY 

other's  company,  away  from  home  with  its 
unpleasant  preponderance  of  femminity. 

"  What 's  gran'ma  an'  all  them  women  tu 
aour  house  for,  Unc'  Lisher  ?  "  Sammy  asked 
after  much  silent  pondering  of  the  problem. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  they  come  tu  visit  along  wi' 
the  darkter." 

"  An'  wha'  'd  he  come  for  ?  " 

"  I  da'  say  tu  visit  along  wi'  them,"  Uncle 
Lisha  answered,  hoping  there  might  be  an 
end  of  questions.  "  We  '11  go  on  an'  see 
Gran'ther  Hill  ;  he 's  older  'n  any  hill 
raound  here,  —  older  'n  Tater  Hill,  fur  's  I 
know,  —  an'  he  knows  more  stories  'n  the 
''Rabian  Nights'  tells  on.  Mebby  he'll 
tell  us  some  on  'em,  'baout  Ticonderoge 
an'  Bemiin't'n,  like  'nough,  an'  Injuns,  an' 
wolves,  an'  I  do'  know  what  all." 

"  What  was  Ti — Ticon-dero —  I  do' 
know  liaow  you  say  it." 

"  'Derogy  ?  Oh,  that 's  a  fort  him  an' 
another  man  took  away  from  the  British  in 
ol'  times." 

They  found  the  veteran  sitting  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  shooing  away  the  chickens  with 
frequent  flourishes  of  his    staff,  sometimes 


A  VISIT   TO   GRAN'THER   HILL        39 

getting  the  end  under  some  gawky,  long- 
legged,  too  adventurous  cockerels  and  toss- 
ing the  unsusj^ecting  fowl  in  the  air. 

"  Jozeff's  womern  is  bediviled  arter  chick- 
ens !  "  he  remarked  to  the  visitors  after  a 
successful  toss.  "  An'  I  'd  rather  hev  the 
devil  raound  me  — the  idgets  I  " 

"  Pooty  middlin'  good  they  be  stewed  or 
friggseed,"  said  Uncle  Lisha. 

"  I  'd  livser  hev  a  pa'tridge,"  said  Gran'- 
ther  Hill. 

"  Yes,  but  them  ye  can't  git  ary  minute 
you  take  a  notion,"  Lisha  remarked. 

"  Mebby  you  can't ;  but  me  an'  that  'ere 
boy  can,  an'  we  '11  show  ye  some  day,  won't 
us,  Bub  ?  " 

Sammy  modestly  assented. 

"  But  ye  can't  go  aout  an'  find  a  pa'tridge 
nest  any  time." 

"  Wal,  oncte  I  faoimd  a  pa'tridge  nest 
just  at  the  right  minute." 

"  An'  haow  was  that,  Cap'n  Hill  ?  " 

"  I  was  a-scaoutin'  clust  tu  the  inemy,  wi' 
not  a  maou'ful  t'  eat  in  my  knapsack,  an' 
afeard  tu  shoot  on  account  o'  showin'  where 
I  was.     I  tell  ye,  it  was  all-kill  in'  tough  tu 


40  SAM'S  BOY 

see  a  pa'tridge  striittin'  along  ahead  on  ye, 
or  a  rabbit  a-skippin'  away,  or  a  deer  git  up 
an'  stretch  hisself  when  yer  stomach  was 
a-cryin'  cupboard  so  you  was  ready  tu  eat 
yer  moccasin  strings,  an'  you  da'sn't  shoot. 
Oncte  a  deer  got  up  that  way,  an'  I  see  an 
Injin  rise  up  from  behind  a  lawg  not  ten 
rod  off,  an'  p'int  his  gun  at  him,  an'  a-lookin' 
mighty  hungry  an'  wishful.  But  he  da'sn't 
shoot  no  more  'n  me,  an'  by'm  by  went 
arsneakin'  off  a-huntin'  sech  game  as  me, 
an'  one  a-hankerin'  for  his  scalp. 

"  When  all  tu  oncte  a  pa'tridge  scooted 
aout  from  most  under  my  foot,  an'  there  lay 
a  dozen  white  aigs.  I  jest  dropped  daown 
aside  on  'em  an'  gobbled  'em.  I  do'  know 
but  the'  was  young  birds  in  'em  as  big  as 
bumblebees.  I  did  n't  stop  tu  ask  no  ques- 
tions, an'  I  never  eat  a  better  meal.  The 
next  thing  I  hed  t'  eat  was  a  han'ful  o'  no- 
cake  aouten  a  dead  Injin's  bag." 

"  'T  ain't  good  tu  hev  no-cake,  is  't,  Unc' 
Lisher  ?  "  Sammy  asked  with  round  wistful 
eyes  on  the  grim,  gaunt  old  story-teller. 

"  It 's  paounded  popcorn  he  means,  an' 
lee  tie  boys  likes  that." 


A  VISIT  TO   GRAN'THER   HILL        41 

While  Uncle  Lisha  was  speaking,  the  old 
man  hobbled  to  a  cupboard  across  the  room, 
reached  his  hand  into  an  earthen  jar,  and 
brought  back  two  heart-shaped  seed  cookies. 

"  There,  Sammy,  see  if  them  ain't  better  'n 
no-cake." 

"  I  b'lieve  I  've  hearn  tell  haow  you  was 
tu  Ticonderoge,  Cap'n  Hill  ?  "  Uncle  Lisha 
dehcately  suggested. 

"  Me  !  Wal,  I  rather  guess  I  was  ;  the 
secont  man  inside  arter  ol'  Ethan  an'  that 
Beeman  boy.  By  the  Lord  Harry !  it  al- 
lers  tickled  me  for  tu  hear  tell  what  Ethan 
said  when  he  met  the  cap'n.  He  writ  a 
book  a-tellin'  on't,  haow  he  demanded  the 
fort,  '  In  the  name  o'  the  Gre't  Jehover  an' 
the  Continental  Congress  I '  an'  haow  he 
talked  tu  us  arter  we  landed.  Says  he, 
'  Boys,  it  '11  be  daylight  afore  them  lazy 
bones  gits  here,  an'  aour  cake  '11  all  be  dough. 
You  that 's  for  goin'  ahead,  p'ise  your  firelocks, 
an'  don't  ye  du  it  if  you  're  a  lot  o'  damned 
caowards ; '  an'  when  he  come  tu  the  cap'n's 
quarters  he  says,  says  he,  'Come  aout  o'  yer 
hole,  you  damned  ol'  skunk,  or  by  the  Gre't 
Jehover    I  '11    let    daylight    through    ye  ! ' 


42  SAM'S  BOY 

Them  's  the  words  he  said !  He  did  n't 
stop  for  tu  make  no  Fourth  o'  July  sj)eech." 

"  Did  he  ever  know  any  wolves,  real  ones, 
Unc'  Lisher  ?  "  the  young  listener  whispered 
covertly,  yet  overheard. 

"  Law,  yes,  no  eend  on  'em.  Why,  he 
act'ally  shot  the  last  wolf  'at  ever  come  tu 
Danvis  !  " 

"  Was  it  wolves  he  was  a-askin'  ?  "  Gran'- 
ther  Hill  demanded.  "  Lord  Harry,  I  guess 
you  'd  'a'  thought  so  when  I  fust  come  tu 
Danvis !  It  was  o-o-o-o  here,  an'  o-o-o-o  there 
as  soon  as  ever  night  come,  till  they  'd  killed 
off  all  the  deer,  an'  you  might  as  well  try 
for  tu  keep  chickens  in  a  weasel  hole  as 
tu  keep  a  sheep  anywher's !  But  they  got 
trapped  an'  hunted  off  arter  a  sf)eU,  till  the' 
wa'n't  none  left  here  'ceptin'  one  ol'  she,  'at 
kep'  up  on  Tater  Hill.  She  raised  a  litter 
reg'lar,  an'  every  night  daown  she  'd  come 
off'n  the  maountain  an'  crost  the  river  an'  git 
her  belly  full  o'  mutton,  an'  take  it  back  tu 
her  whelps,  an'  the'  couldn't  nob'dy  git  a 
sight  on  her  nor  ketch  her,  she  was  that 
cunnin'.  So  one  day  I  took  me  a  traj)  on 
my  shoulder,  an'  I  took  tu  the  river  a-wadin' 


A  VISIT   TO   GRAN'THER   HILL        43 

along,  till  by'm  by  I  faoiind  a  path  where 
the  ol'  rip  come  claown  for  tu  cross,  an' 
there  I  sot  my  trap  wi'  a  sod  on  the  pan 
abaout  a  step  from  the  shore,  an'  next  mornin' 
it  was  gone,  bob  an'  sinker,  an'  I  foUered 
lip  the  trail  an'  faoun'  the  ol'  varmint  lookm' 
'shamed  enough.  When  I  'd  killed  her  an' 
skun  her,  I  f ollered  up  the  path  an'  faoun' 
the  den,  an'  the  next  thing  was  for  tu  git 
the  cubs. 

"  When  I  reckoned  they  'd  got  hungry 
'nouffh  tu  be  kerless  I  baited  a  hook  wi' 
mutton,  an'  when  they  'd  grab  it  I  'd  yank 
'em  aout,  till  I  got  three.  I  allers  cal'lated 
there  was  one  more,  an'  I  'spect  the  ol'  he, 
he  raised  him,  an'  he  come  back  arter  a 
spell,  an'  was  the  one  I  killed  tew  year  ago. 
I  '11  take  ye  up  there  an'  show  ye  the  place 
some  day,  Bub,  when  you  git  big  enough  tu 
go  huntin'.  You  '11  take  tu  it,  I  know  by 
the  way  ye  tousled  that  foxskin  'fore  ye 
could  walk.  He  'd  make  a  boy  if  I  hed  the 
raisin'  on  him,  an'  it  wa'  n't  for  his  hevin' 
sech  a  gran'marm." 

"  It 's  ruther  late  for  him  to  help  that, 
Cap'n  Hill,"  said  Uncle  Lisha. 


44  SAM'S  BOY 

"  I  spusso,"  the  veteran  reluctantly  as- 
sented. "  But  the  ol'  critter  might  die  off. 
I  wonder  if  I  can't  find  him  some  o'  Mari's 
sweet-flag  candy.  That  'ere  's  fust  chop  for 
leetle  boys,  if  aour  Bub  an'  amongst  'em 
hain't  eat  it  all  up." 

"  Wolves  !  "  Gran'ther  Hill  mused  as  he 
bestowed  a  handful  of  sliced  calamus  root 
candied  in  maj^le  sugar  ujjon  his  youtliful 
guest.  "  Lord  Harry,  Lisher  !  Don't  you 
remember  what  a  hullaballoo  the'  was  over 
what  's-his-name  a-bein'  eat  up  by  wolves  in 
his  sugar  camp  ?  There  was  his  bones,  — 
sheep's  bones  they  was,  —  an'  I  wonder  the 
critter  hed  sense  enough  tu  take  huffs  off, 
an'  the  snow  all  trampled  up  by  the  wolves, 
—  every  identical  track  made  wi'  a  right 
forepaw !  An'  his  women  hed  a  fun'ral 
over  them  bones,  an'  buried  'em,  an'  j)ut  up 
a  gravestun,  '  He  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth ! ' 
Sure  'nough,  so  he  was,  way  aout  in  York 
State  !  It  wa'n't  much  that  way  with  Jim 
Walker  an'  Ike  Warner,  which  I  s'pose 
you  've  heered  on  time  an'  ag'in ;  but  Bub 
here  never  did. 

"  They  was  a-comin'  from  a  loggin'  bee 


A  VISIT  TO  GRAN'THER  HILL        45 

arter  dark,  an'  there  was  a  mess  o'  wolves 
took  arter  'em.  Jim  an'  Ike  hed  both  be'n 
arter  the  same  gal,  nip  an'  tuck,  for  a  year, 
but  Ike  got  the  whip  hand  an'  got  the  gal. 
Jim  did  n't  lay  it  up  ag'in  Ike  none,  but  was 
jes'  as  good  friends  as  ever,  an'  thought  just 
as  much  of  Phebe.  Wal,  the  wolves  kep' 
a-gittin'  sassier,  an'  they  hed  n't  ary  gun,  an' 
the  darker  it  got  the  cluster  the  wolves  come, 
an'  it  begun  tu  look  mighty  ser'ous,  an'  they 
kep'  a-hus'lin'  an'  a-lookin'  for  a  tree  they 
could  cHmb,  but  it  'peared  as  if  the  very 
woods  was  agin  'em,  an'  every  tree  a-swellin' 
up  bigger  'n  a  man  could  hug,  an'  a-holdin' 
up  its  branches  ten  feet  higher  'n  ever.  They 
got  tu  runnin'  at  last,  an'  Ike  he  was  the 
shortest-winded  an'  shortest-laiged,  but  Jim 
never  left  him  behind,  an'  kep'  a-encouragin' 
on  him,  a-teUin'  on  him  'baout  Phebe  an' 
the  baby.  By'm  by  Jim  faced  about  an' 
ketched  Ike  by  the  hand.  '  Good-by,'  says 
he,  '  an'  now  run  for  your  life  whilst  I  hold 
'm  a  spell.'  Ike  run  on,  a-lookin'  back  over 
his  shoulder  naow  an'  agin,  an'  there  stood 
Jim  steddy  as  a  rock,  wi'  his  club  up  an' 
ready. 


i6  SAM'S   BOY 

"  At  fiist  the  wolves  stood  off  kinder  shy ; 
then  they  come  a-jnmpin'  an'  a-snappin',  an' 
daown  come  the  club  like  a  flail,  a-layin'  aout 
a  wolf  'baout  every  time.  But  the  last  time 
he  looked  the'  wa'n't  no  Jim,  —  only  a  black 
swarm  a-sui-gin'  back  an'  tew  on  the  graound 
in  the  dusk,  an'  that  was  the  last  he  seen. 
Ike  never  wanted  tu  talk  much  'baout  that, 
but  he  done  more  'n  any  other  ten  men  tu 
clean  the  wolves  aouten  this  country.  He 
trapped  'em,  an'  he  p'isened  'em,  an'  if  the' 
was  a  wolf  himt  within  twenty  mild  he  was 
in  it. 

"  One  day  he  went  a-huntin'  an'  never 
come  back,  an'  we  rallied  aout  tu  s'arch  for 
him.  I  was  the  fust  one  come  on  tu  him, 
a-layin'  on  his  back  wi'  a  big  painter  atop 
on  him.  The  wind  was  a-blowin'  strong,  an' 
the  critter's  tail  was  a-wavin'  in  't  as  nat'ral 
as  life,  —  jest  that  ugly  t^^tch  cat  critters 
hes  when  they're  settin'  their  teeth  into 
their  game,  an'  I  up  wi'  my  gun  an'  gin  it 
tu  him  jest  behind  the  shoulder :  but  the' 
wa'n't  a  stir.  The  critter  was  dead  as  hay, 
wi'  Ike's  bullet  through  his  heart. 

"  Ah,  wal,  these  'ere  woods  hain't  what 


A  VISIT   TO   GRAN'THER  HILL       47 

they  useter  be,"  the  veteran  sighed,  casting 
a  regi-etful  glance  upon  the  broad  sweep  of 
forest  that  stooped  from  the  lofty  mountain 
crests  to  the  narrow  level  of  cleared  land. 
"  The'  hain't  notliin'  in  'em  naow  bigger  'n 
a  fox,  nor  dang'rouser  'n  a  coon,  —  'ceptin' 
naow  an'  agin  a  bear," 

To  the  little  boy  they  looked  as  illimitable 
as  the  sky  and  as  full  of  mystery,  and  why 
not  full  of  such  tragedies  as  this  he  had  just 
heard  ?  Some  day,  when  he  grew  to  be  a 
man,  — not  so  old  as  Gran'ther  Hill,  nor  so 
fat  as  Uncle  Lisha,  for  these  he  coidd  not 
be,  but  something  like  that  paragon  of  men, 
his  father,  —  that  wonderful  realm  of  shade 
and  strange  sounds  would  be  open  to  him  as 
it  was  now  to  them  ;  and  then  what  sights 
he  would  see,  and  be  a  teller  of  tales  to  little 
boys!  So  with  far-away  gaze  where  the 
cloud  shadows  swept  across  the  green  roof 
of  the  woods,  he  dreamed  the  unspeakable 
dreams  of  childhood,  —  the  dreams  that  are 
realities,  never  needing  to  come  truer, — 
while  the  two  old  men  droned  on  of  common 
affairs  not  worth  being  true. 

By  and  by  Ruby  had  a  dinner  ready  for 


48  SAM'S   BOY 

them,  concerning  wliicli  she  was  nervously 
anxious,  it  being  her  first  attempt  to  accom- 
plish such  a  feat  alone.  But  it  was  all  that 
could  be  desired  by  a  company  blessed  with 
such  appetites.  The  potatoes  were  puffs  of 
meal ;  the  dandelion  greens  were  tender ;  the 
pork  boiled  to  just  the  right  degree;  and 
the  Indian  pudding  was  as  good  as  her 
mother's.  She  could  not  ask  for  greater 
praise  than  her  grandfather  gave  her  when 
he  said,  — 

"  I  'm  almighty  glad  they  named  you 
Euby  arter  your  gran'mother  !  " 

In  the  afternoon  the  youngsters  played 
"  Injun  "  and  hunted  wolves ;  and  when  the 
cows  were  coming  home,  lowing  for  their 
imprisoned  calves.  Uncle  Lisha  again  bent 
his  waxy  forefinger  to  the  clasp  of  Sammy's 
chubby  palm,  and  the  pair  wended  their  way 
homeward. 

The  house  was  very  quiet  when  they  en- 
tered the  kitchen.  The  doctor  was  gone, 
but  the  odor  of  his  decoctions  still  lingered ; 
and  Aunt  Jerusha  and  Maria  HiU  were 
busy  at  the  stove  with  several  messes,  — 
some    nutritious,    others    medicinal.       Mrs. 


A  VISIT  TO  GRAN'THER  HILL        49 

Purington  sat  apart  in  a  rocking-chair,  criti- 
cally observant,  and  with  an  air  of  general 
disapproval,  her  smelling  bottle  and  handker- 
chief in  either  hand. 

"  Wal,  young  man,"  she  sighed,  regarding 
her  grandson  mournfully,  and  quite  ignoring 
Uncle  Lisha,  "  your  nose  is  aout  o'  j'int !  " 

Sammy  put  one  hand  to  that  rotund  fea- 
ture, and  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find 
that  he  had  suffered  no  perceptible  change. 
"  Where  's  mammy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Why,  bless  his  dear  heart !  "  cried  Aunt 
Jerusha.  "  Mammy  's  in  the  bedroom,  an' 
she  's  got  a  leetle  sister  for  him,  'at  the  dark- 
ter  fetched  in  his  saddlebags,  an'  he  shall 
go  right  in  an'  see  it  I  " 

WhercAvith  she  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
led  liim  to  Huldah's  bedside,  where  she  was 
lying  very  still  and  pale,  with  a  world  of  love 
beaming  from  her  soft  eyes  for  her  little  boy 
when  he  was  lifted  up  to  kiss  her  and  be 
shown  the  wee  bit  of  humanity  that  was 
cuddled  beside  her. 

"  She  hain't  so  pooty  as  the  new  pigs," 
he  commented.  "  Will  she  see  some  time, 
an'  talk  an'  walk  ?  " 


50  SAM'S  BOY 

"  Yes,  deary,  an'  be  a  dear  little  sister  for 
him  to  play  with  an'  ta'  care  of." 

Then,  with  many  injunctions  to  lie  very 
still,  he  was  left  to  lie  beside  his  mother  and 
whisper  his  story  of  the  day's  adventures. 
Returning  to  the  kitchen,  he  had  some  dis- 
paraging remarks  to  make  concerning  his 
new  relative,  and  of  the  doctor  as  a  purveyor 
of  such  additions  to  the  family. 

"  If  I  was  the  darkter  I  'd  keep  'em  till 
they  got  bigger  afore  I  fetched  'em,"  he  said, 
thinking  it  would  be  a  long  time  for  him  to 
wait  for  tliis  nestling  to  become  an  available 
playmate.  Ruby  Hill's  dolls  were  better,  for 
they  would  bear  rough  handling,  while  he  was 
scarcely  permitted  to  touch  this  fragile  mite. 

"  Wal,  I  du  hope  tu  land  o'  goodness," 
Mrs.  Purington  groaned,  "  whatever  comes, 
when  it  comes  tu  namin'  this  baby,  she  won't 
be  named  so  ntter  ridic'lous  as  what  he  is ! 
I  du  think  it 's  time  my  folks  was  considered 
a  leetle  in  a-namin'  my  grandchildren.  Eu- 
nice would  be  a  nice  name  for  her,  an'  would 
come  real  handy  for  her  tu  hev  all  my  sheets 
and  tablecloths  marked  '  E.  B.'  in  the  right- 
hand  corner,  some  in  cross-stitch,  an'  some 


A  VISIT  TO  GRAN'THER  HILL       51 

with  endurable  ink,  an'  all  she  'd  hafter  du  'd 
be  tu  put  on  a  '  L.'  Don't  let  me  forgit 
tu  mention  that  tu  Huldy  in  the  mornin'. 
But,  oh,  dear  me,  suzzy  day !  I  p'sume  tu 
say  that  ol'  Gran'ther  Hill  —  my  sakes, 
M'rier,  what  hev  I  said  ?  But  I  won't 
spile  a  story  for  relation's  sake  —  '11  come 
over  here  an'  coax  'em  tu  name  her  Rew-by  or 
Mer-ri-er.  Or  mebby  that  Antwine  French- 
man '11  git  'em  tu  name  her  after  his  womern. 
Some  way  they  '11  work  it  tu  take  a  name 
aouten  honest  people's  maouths.  But  she 
won't  git  my  linen  sheets  an'  tablecloths  't 
I  wove  when  I  was  a  gal,  an'  no  gal  naow- 
erdays  knows  'nough  tu  spin,  let  alone 
warpin'  a  web.  I  do'  know  what  this  world 
is  a-comin'  tu !  It  does  seem  as  'ous^h  the 
next  gineration  would  n't  know  nothin' !  " 
She  sought  consolation  for  the  degeneracy  of 
the  times  in  her  smelling  bottle,  and  shut 
her  eyes  upon  a  naughty  world. 

"  Oh,  law  sakes !  I  guess  there  '11  be  a 
name  pervided  some  way ;  the'  allers  has 
be'n.  An'  what  a  lot  on  'em !  "  said  Aunt 
Jerusha  cheerfully  as  she  bore  a  basin  of 
gruel  in  to  Huldah. 


CHAPTER  V 

A    BALL 

"Unc'  Lisher,  Aunt  'Rusliy  says  she 
guess  you  '11  cover  my  ball,"  the  little  boy 
said,  coming  to  the  shoe  bench  and  laying  a 
newly  woimd  ball  of  yarn  on  the  old  man's 
knee.  It  was  tightly  wound  of  raveled  stock- 
ing yarn  about  a  core  of  India  rubber  made 
of  strings  cut  from  one  of  the  shapeless  rub- 
ber overshoes  of  those  days,  and  was  wonder- 
fully elastic,  as  Uncle  Lisha  proved  by  cast- 
ing it  smartly  on  the  floor,  whence  it  bounded 
almost  to  the  smoky  ceiling,  and  at  the  sec- 
ond rebound  splashed  into  the  water  tub, 
where  it  bobbed  up  and  down  for  an  instant 
before  it  was  snatched  forth  by  Uncle  Lisha's 
rescuing  hand. 

"  Good  airth  an'  seas  !  That  was  tew  bad 
tu  go  an'  chuck  that  'ere  new  ball  inter  the 
nasty  ol'  tub  I  "  he  shouted,  wiping  the  drip- 
ping  toy  on  his  apron.     "  My !  it 's  alive, 


A  BALL  53 

hain't  it  ?  An'  it  jest  went  an'  hopped  in 
there  for  fun.  But  it  hain't  hurt  it  one 
mite,  an'  he  need  n't  go  tu  puckerin'  up  his 
face  abaout  that !  We  '11  let  that  'ere  baby- 
in  there  du  the  cryin'  ;  she  hain'  nothin'  else 
tu  tend  tu.  Naow,  I  hain't  go'  no  piece  o' 
luther  in  the  shop  fit  fur  tu  kiver  sech  a 
neat  ball,  but  I  know  where  the'  is  some  'at 
'11  du  it  complete  wi'  jest  a  leetle  mite  o' 
fixin'.  It 's  on  a'  oF  woo'chuck  naow,  but 
it 's  jest  a-itchin'  for  tu  git  on  this  ball  an' 
ha'  some  fun.  An'  I  da'  say  the  woo'chuck 
feels  jest  that  way  about  it,  for  he  's  be'n 
a-eatin'  your  daddy's  clover  an'  a-tromplin' 
of  it  daown  this  tew  year,  an'  oncte  he  stole 
some  beans,  an'  he  'd  orter  feel  ju'  like  makin' 
some  returns  for  all  he  's  hed.  I  hain't  got 
nothin'  drivin'  on  hand,  so  I  '11  git  one  o' 
your  daddy's  traps  an'  we  '11  gwup  an'  talk  it 
over  wi'  Mr.  Woo'chuck." 

He  went  in  quest  of  a  trap,  with  which  he 
presently  i-eturned,  and  the  two  set  forth, 
the  child  clinging  to  the  old  man's  finger  to 
keep  himself  on  foot  in  the  tangle  of  may- 
weed that  bordered  the  wagon  track.  They 
soon  entered  the  meadow,  and  afar  off  over 


54  SAM'S   BOY 

the  clover  and  the  budding  daisies  saw  the 
woodchuck  sitting  at  his  open  door,  —  a 
brown  lump  in  the  yellow  threshold  of  fresh 
loam. 

"  There  he  is !  "  said  Uncle  Lisha,  stop- 
ping to  cut  and  trim  a  crotched  stick  from  a 
hazel  thicket.  "  He 's  a-waitin'  for  us,  but 
he  '11  run  intu  his  haouse  long  'nough  'fore 
we  git  there.  An'  then,  like  'nough,  he  '11 
come  aout  tu  stay,  an'  go  hum  wi'  us  mebby. 
'Long  last  fall,  when  the  clover  begin  tu 
git  frosted,  an'  the  ol'  bumblebees  'at  got 
drunk  on  the  honey,  an'  laid  aout  overnight, 
waked  up  mighty  stiff  in  the  mornin',  an' 
ol'  Mr.  Woo'chuck  smelt  the  col'  weather 
comin'  nigh,  he  jest  went  int'  the  furder  eend 
o'  his  suUer  an'  curled  up  an'  shet  his  eyes 
an'  went  tu  sleep  an'  dreamed  o'  clover  an' 
bean  patches  till  they  come  true  in  the 
spring.  I  do'  know  whether  or  no  it  was  a 
robin  a-singin'  'at  woke  him,  or  the  black- 
birds down  by  the  brook,  or  a  skunk  come 
in  an'  bid  him  good-mornin',  but  some  way 
or  'nother  he  got  woke  up,  an'  come  aou' 
door,  an'  the  snow  was  all  gone,  an'  the'  was 
a  twinge  o'  green  on  the  warm  side-hills.     I 


A  BALL  55 

most  wish  't  we  could  du  ju'  so,  only  we  'd 
miss  the  skatin'  an'  slidin'  daownhill.  Yip  ! 
there  he  goes  a-whistlin'  int'  his  hole  !  " 

A  whisk  of  the  brown  tail  was  the  last 
they  saw  of  him  for  a  while,  and  a  smoth- 
ered whistle  the  last  they  heard.  Uncle 
Lisha  drove  the  stake  through  the  chain- 
ring,  set  the  trap,  covered  it  carefully,  and 
removed  to  a  cosy  bend  of  the  bank,  where 
he  lighted  his  pipe ;  and  Sammy,  after  the 
'manner  of  his  kind,  began  teasing  for  a 
story.  But  while  Uncle  Lisha  was  rum- 
mao-ing  his  wits  and  the  landscape  for  a 
subject,  the  brown  nose  of  the  woodchuck 
reappeared,  making  a  cautious  reconnois- 
sance ;  there  was  a  sharp  metallic  click,  a 
clink  of  the  chain,  and  a  loud,  querulous 
whistle  that  was  smothered  instantaneously 
in  the  depths  of  the  burrow. 

"  Hooray !  We  got  him  !  "  Uncle  Lisha 
shouted,  getting  quickly  to  his  feet  and  hur- 
rying to  the  place,  Sammy  running  beside 
him  in  breathless  excitement. 

The  chain  was  drawn  taut,  and  the  stake 
was  quivering  with  the  strain  upon  it.  Un- 
cle Lisha  loosened  and  pulled  it  up,  and 


56  SAM'S  BOY 

began  drawing  forth  the  captive.  Now  the 
trap  appeared  with  a  brown  leg  in  its  vise- 
like grip,  then  a  grim,  grizzled  head,  growl- 
ing and  gnashing  the  long  white  teeth. 

"  Oh,  I  do'  want  no  cover  on  my  ball !  " 
Sammy  cried,  shrinking  back.  "  Let  him 
go,  Unc'  Lisher  ;  let  him  go  !  " 

"  Bless  your  heart,  child,  he  can't  hurt 
nob'dy  !  See !  "  the  old  man  said,  reassur- 
ingly, and  gave  the  poor  brute  a  stunning 
blow,  which,  twice  or  thrice  repeated,  put 
an  end  to  his  struggles.  "  My,  hain't  he  a 
nice  fat  one,  an'  won't  his  hide  make  a  com- 
plete kiver  for  aour  ball,  oncte  we  git  it 
tanned  good !  "  and  now  that  the  cruelty  of 
capture  and  killing  were  over  the  boy's  na- 
ture began  to  assert  itself,  and  he,  too, 
exulted  over  the  exploit,  yet  not  without 
twino;es  of  remorse. 

"Hain't  he  big?  An'  haow  quick  we 
ketched  him !  But  he  won't  never  come 
aout  an'  see  haow  pooty  all  aou'  doors  is ! 
Poor  oF  woo'chock.  Say,  Unc'  Lisher, 
when  we  git  most  hum  may  I  kerry  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  guess  we  do'  wanter  lug  his  ol' 
carkis  hum,  du  we  ?    He  's  tough  an'  strong, 


A  BALL  57 

but  Bub  can  kerry  the  skin  hum  just  as  his 
daddy  does  his  foxskins,"  and  Sammy  be- 
ing reconciled  to  this  arrangement,  Uncle 
Lisha  stripped  off  the  skin,  and  the  two 
went  home,  the  boy  running  in  advance  to 
display  the  trophy  and  tell  the  story  of  its 
capture. 

Uncle  Lisha  consigned  the  skin  to  the 
soap  barrel  without  knowledge  of  the  too 
fastidious  womenkind,  whence  it  was  taken 
after  a  couple  of  days,  ready  to  yield  the 
bedraggled  hair  to  persuasive  scraping,  and 
then  was  pulled,  rubbed,  and  kneaded  until 
it  became  as  pHable  as  a  glove,  and  as  yel- 
low as  a  lemon. 

"  An'  naow,  I  b'lieve  if  that  ol'  woo'- 
chuck  coidd  see  it  he  would  n't  know  it,  an' 
if  he  did,  he  'd  be  praoud  on't,"  said  Uncle 
Lisha.  "  Oncte  when  Clapham  was  a  boy, 
a-goin'  tu  school,  he  was  allers  a-dickerin', " 
said  he,  musing  on  the  past.  "  In  the  sum- 
mer he  'd  ketch  woo'chuck  an'  tan  the  hides 
an'  make  'em  intu  shoestrings  for  a  pint  o' 
corn  a  pair,  an'  the  lashes  for  a  quart,  an' 
then  he  'd  sell  the  corn  for  knickknacks,  — 


58  SAM'S  BOY 

pins  an'  needles,  an'  buttons  an'  combs, — an' 
then  he  'd  peddle  'em  aout  for  cash,  an'  so 
arter  a  spell  got  tu  keepin'  store.  That  is 
the  way  he  got  a  start  in  the  world." 

According  to  some  occult  rule,  the  old 
shoemaker  cut  the  skin  into  oval  quarters 
and  sewed  them  over  the  ball  with  waxed 
ends,  and  soon  had  it  ready  to  meet  the  fate 
of  all  balls,  which  is  to  get  hopelessly  lost. 

"  There,"  he  said,  handing  it  over  to  its 
proud  owner,  "  you  can  play  tew  ol'  cat,  or 
barnbase,  or  most  anything  wi'  that  'ere 
ball  naow,"  and  Sammy  went  forth  rejoi- 
cing. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CANADIAN   TALES 

One  dewy  morning  Antoine  made  Ws  ap- 
pearance with  a  hoe  upon  his  shoulder  to 
work  in  the  garden,  according  to  a  previous 
contract,  and  Sammy  soon  came  to  while 
away  the  morning  hours  with  a  friendly 
visit,  sweetening  the  self-imposed  duty  with 
a  lump  of  maple  sugar  moulded  in  an  egg- 
shell. Its  hard  rotundity  resisted  his  at- 
tempts to  get  a  full  bite,  and  he  had  only 
succeeded  in  grooving  it  with  the  marks  of 
his  milk  teeth. 

Antoine,  noting  it,  asked,  "  Wal,  you  gat 
some  hen  lay  dat  kan  o'  aig,  prob'ly  ?  " 

"No;  Aunt  'Rushy  done  it,"  the  child 
answered. 

"  She  pooty  good  hen,  a'n't  it  ? "  said 
Antoine  quickly. 

"  Aour  hens  lays  aigs  wi'  cliickens  in  'em. 
Does  yourn  ?" 


60  SAM'S  BOY 

"  Sometam  he  do,  sometam  lie  don't,"  the 
Canadian  answered.  "  One  ma  hoi'  hen  dis 
sprim  come  aout  hees  nes'  wid  ten  leetly 
dawk.  Wen  dey  come  on  de  brook  dey  all 
of  it  jomp  on  de  water,  an'  dat  hoi'  hen  he 
was  crazy  for  'fraid  dey  all  be  draown." 

Sammy  was  not  entirely  credulous,  and 
made  a  mental  note  that  he  would  tell  Un- 
cle Lisha  that  Antoine  had  hens  that  laid 
duck  eggs,  and  ask  his  opinion  of  the  story. 

"  You  lak  de  mepple  sug'  aig  pooty  good, 
a'n't  it  ?  "  Antoine  continued,  after  a  little 
waiting  for  further  questions.  "  Wal,  sah, 
if  you  lak  it,  you  want  for  go  'long  to  me  in 
Canada,  sometam.  Oh,  dar  was  hoi'  great 
big  montaigne  dar,  all  mepple  sugre.  Yaas, 
sah ;  dat  was  de  place  for  leetly  boys,  Ah 
tol'  you." 

Sammy  was  inclined  to  think  so  too,  and 
began  to  look  with  contempt  upon  his  gnawed 
morsel.  "  As  big  as  Hog's  Back  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Gosh,  yes  ;  big  as  'Tater  Hill !  Haow 
you  s'pose  he  come  so  ?  Wal,  sah.  Ah  '11 
goin'  tol'  you  'baout  dat.  You  see  dar  was 
great    many,    plenty    mepple    tree,    prob'ly 


CANADIAN  TALES  61 

t'ousan',  grow  on  one  big  montaigne  —  one 
dat  dey  call  vulcanno,  got  fire  inside  of  him, 
burn  all  de  tarn,  all  de  tarn,  an'  smoke  lak 
forty  coal  pit.  Den  one  tani  in  de  sjDrim 
dey  comes  some  awfuls  t'under  an'  li'tKn's 
an'  he  stroke  all  dem  tree  an'  split  it  lak 
kindly  hwoods,  so  de  sap  all  run  o£P  in 
brook  as  big  as  Stony  Brook  an'  ran  inside 
de  montaigne,  an'  he  bile,  an'  bile,  so  he 
bile  over,  an'  it  was  mepple  sirrup  run  aout 
an'  run  daown  all  de  side  dat  montaigne,  an' 
when  he  got  cool  off  it  was  mepple  sugi-e, 
four,  fave,  prob'ly  t'ree  foot  t'ick,  more  as 
nacre  of  it ;  an'  all  you  gat  for  do  was  chawp 
it  up  wid  axe  an'  carry  him  off.  Ah  '11 
goin'  tak  you  dar  sometam  if  you  want  it !  " 

Sammy  declared  that  nothing  would  please 
him  more,  and  Antoine  went  on.  "  But 
you  gat  for  look  aout  for  bear.  Dey  come 
from  all  over,  for  gat  dat  sugre.  Ma  gran'- 
fader  he  keel  more  as  fifty  dar."  This  con- 
sideration made  Sammy  hesitate  to  accept 
the  invitation,  and  in  his  agitation  he  pulled 
uj)  a  freshly  sprouted  bean. 

"  Dar  !  see  what  you  do,  bad  leetly  boy !  " 
cried  Antoine.      "  Bah  gracien !    'f  you  do 


62  SAM'S  BOY 

so  bad  lak  dat  bete  an  grand  cue  gat 
you!" 

"What  sort  o'  thing's  that,  Mr.  An- 
toine  ?  "  Sammy  asked,  with  a  determination 
not  to  be  frightened  without  knowing  why. 

"  Oh,  dat  was  kan  o'  t'ing  dey  gat  in 
Canada  dat  ketch  leetly  boy  if  he  a'n't  be 
good  !  " 

"  How  does  he  look  ? "  Sammy  asked, 
with  increased  curiosity. 

"  Oh,  he  '11  gat  tails  longer  as  everyt'Ing, 
an'  he  win'  it  raoun'  leetly  boy's  neck  of  it 
an'  choke  it  so  he  can'  breeze !  "  Antoine's 
vague  description  of  this  Canadian  inven- 
tion for  the  better  management  of  children 
was  not  satisfying. 

"  I  guess  I  be  good  an'  go  to  the  sugar 
mountain." 

"  Yas,  dat  was  de  bes',  an'  de  milk  river, 
too,  dat  was  pooty  good  for  leetly  boy." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Oh,  you  see,  one  tam  gre't  many  year 
'go,  dar  was  hoi'  whomans,  hoi',  hoi',  an'  lame 
so  she  can'  mos'  go,  was  travel  long  one 
naght,  an'  come  on  rich  farmer  haouse  an' 
ask   it   if   he  can    stay  aU   naght,  an'  dey 


CANADIAN  TALES  63 

hugly,  an'  say  '  No,'  an'  drove  it  off.     Nex' 
he  stop  on  poor  man  haouse,  a'n't  mos'  gat 
'nougli  for  lieat  lieself,  an'  dat  man  tol'  it 
he  can  stay,  an'  give  it  bes'  he  gat.     Nex' 
morny  dat  rich  man  caow,  twonty  of  it,  all, 
all  dry  aout,  an'  a'n't  give  some  more  milk, 
never ;  an'  dat  poor  man  cow  w'en  de  who- 
mans  go  meet    him,  hees  milk  run  so  you 
never  see,  four  stream,  aU  so  big  lak  Stony 
Brook,  all  ron  in  one,  an'  mak'  river  so  big- 
canoe  could  go  on  it,  an'  he  run  so  forever. 
An'  dat  mans  got  big  rich,  an'  rich  farmer 
mans  gat  poor  so  he  on  de  taowns.     Dat  hoi' 
whomans  he  was  weetch,  an'  dat  de  way  he 
pay  it.     Naow  if  you  go  dar  an'  want  for 
heat  some  breads  an'  milk,  aU  you  gat  for 
do  was  jomp  on  boats  wid  your  spoon  an' 
loafs  of  bread  an'  jes'  drop  him  on  de  river 
an'  pick  him  up  wid  you'  spoon  as  you  go 
'long.     Dat    was  pooty  comfortably.  Ah  '11 
tol'  you.     An'  'f  you  '11  drudder  had  bread 
an'  butters,  all  you  gat  for  do  was  go  to  de 
falls,  feefty  foot  high,  dey  was,  an'  roar  lak 
some    bulls,  only    kan  sof'ly,  an'  dere  you 
faound  more  butters  as  you  can  see  in  two 
week,  'ca'se  de  falls  he  churn  hese'f  all  de 


64  SAM'S   BOY 

tarn,  an'  all  cle  river  beelow  was  buttermilks, 
an'  all  berlong  of  dat  mans,  an'  lie  was 
liappy,  'cause  he  a'n't  never  had  for  churn 
—  dat  was  mean  works  for  mans,  Ah  '11  tol' 
you ! " 

"Is  that  a  true  story,  Mr.  Antoine  ?  " 
Sammy  asked,  his  eyes  growing  rounder  with 
wonder. 

"  Yas,  sail !  Jes'  as  true  as  dat  mepple 
sugre  montaigne,"  Antoine  declared,  with 
unquestionable  seriousness. 

These  tales  made  Sammy  so  hungry  that 
he  was  obliged  to  run  in  at  once  for  some- 
thing wherewith  to  appease  the  yearnings  of 
his  stomach.  When  Aunt  Jerusha  had  pro- 
vided him  with  a  great  slice  of  bread  and 
butter,  he  went  into  the  shop  to  confer  with 
his  bosom  friend,  who,  after  a  comprehensive 
glance  over  the  rim  of  his  spectacles, 
said  :  — 

"  Bub,  he  'd  better  seddaown  t'  eat  that 
'ere  hunk  o'  bread  and  butter,  'cause  if  he 
should  drop  it  out'  his  toes,  't  would  smash 
'em." 

Sammy  took  the  advice  at  first  as  seri- 
ously as  the  expression  of  Uncle  Lisha's  face 


CANADIAN  TALES  65 

seemed  to  demand  and  complied  with  it. 
But  when  he  had  wiggled  his  toes  in  his 
shoes,  and  considered  their  power  of  endur- 
ance, his  philosophical  conclusion  led  to 
rather  contemptuous  dissent. 

"  Pooh  !  Guess  it  would  n't  hurt  'em. 
They're  harder  'n  bread  an'  butter  !  " 

"  But  ju'  look  o'  the  size !  "  Uncle  Lisha 
urged.  "  You  could  n't  find  you'  toes  nun- 
der  it." 

Sanuny  wiggled  his  toes  contemplatively, 
and  regarded  the  rapidly  diminishing  slice 
and  dismissed  the  subject. 

"  Say,  Unc'  Lisher,  you  s'pose  Mr.  An- 
toine  talks  true  ?  " 

"  What 's  he  be'n  tellin'  on  ye  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  say  the'  's  rocks  o'  sugar  an'  a 
river  o'  milk  in  Canerdy,  an'  he  's  got  a  he 
hen  'at  lays  aigs  leetly  ducks  comes  aout 
on!" 

"  Shaw  !  Ann  Twine  's  French,  an'  his 
tongue  gits  twdsted  tryin'  tu  talk  English. 
I  s'pect  it  kinder  gits  away  from  him  oncte 
in  a  while  an'  he  do'  know  what  'tis  sayin'." 

"  Would  yourn  act  so  if  you  talked 
French,  Unc'  Lisher  ?  " 


66  SAM'S   BOY 

"  I  cla'  say  't  would,"  tlie  old  man  an- 
swered, with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"Unc'  Lisher!" 

"  Wal,  sonny,  what  is  't  ?  "  the  old  man 
responded,  speaking  out  of  one  corner  of  his 
mouth  while  the  middle  of  it  held  a  dozen 
shoe  pegs  ready  for  his  fingers. 

"  How  does  a  wild  pigeon  look  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  're  proper  harnsome,  wi'  gre't 
long  tails." 

"  They  hain't  them  things  Antoine  says 
ketches  little  boys  when  they  hain't  good, 
be  they  ?  "  Sammy  asked  in  some  alarm. 

"  No,  indeedy,  they  hain't.  Ann  Twine, 
he  teUs  whoppers,  he  does.  What  makes 
Bub  ask  'baout  pigeons  ?  " 

"  'Cause  you  tol'  me  the'  'd  be  some  on 
that  posy  tree  over  tu  the  woods,  an'  it 's 
full  o'  some  big  birds  naow.  They  've  got 
long  tails,  an'  when  they  fly  they  clap  their 
wings  ju'  like  the  oF  rooster  'fore  he  crows. 
You  said  we'd  go  an'  shoot  'em.  WiU 
ye?" 

"Good  airth  an'  seas!  Uncle  Lisher 
could  n't  noways  this  mornin'.  He  's  got 
tu  get  these  shoes  tapped  for  an  ol'  womern 


CANADIAN   TALES  67 

'at  needs  'em  bad.  If  't  wa'n't  nothin'  but 
a  man,  I  'd  let  'em  go." 

"  What  be  I  goin'  t'  du  ?  Daddy  's  gone 
away,  an'  his  gun  's  tew  big  !  " 

"Wal,  I  guess  the  leetle  boy '11  hafter 
wait,"  said  Uncle  Lisha,  whacking  away  al- 
ternately at  awl  and  pegs. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WOOD     FOLKS 

Sammy  wandered  about  disconsolately 
until  a  sight  of  the  Hill  homestead  gave 
him  an  aspiration.  Gran'ther  Hill  had  said 
that  they  would  go  hunting  some  day,  and 
why  was  not  this  the  apjoointed  time  ?  It 
was  true,  he  had  not  grown  much  since  then, 
but  one  could  not  wait  forever,  and  pigeons 
wovdd  wait  for  no  one.  So,  deeming  it 
wiser  to  go  first  and  ask  permission  after- 
ward, he  trudged  away. 

As  he  arrived,  panting,  in  the  presence  of 
the  veteran,  whom  he  fortunately  found  in 
the  mood  of  wanting  something  to  break 
the  monotony  of  idleness,  with  no  circumlo- 
cution, he  broke  forth  :  — 

"  Say,  Gran'ther  Hill,  don't  you  wanter 
go  huntin',  'cause  the'  's  a  whole  lot  o'  pi- 
geons tu  a  shad  tree  up  in  the  woods,  an' 
you  can  shoot  'em  ?  " 


WOOD   FOLKS  69 

The  old  man  glowered  dowoi  upon  liim  so 
grimly,  Lis  toothless  jaw  agape  mth  wonder, 
that  Sanuny  almost  repented  his  choice  of  a 
comrade. 

"You  come  up  here  a-puppus  tu  git  me 
tu  go  a-huntin'  with  ye  ?  Wal,  wal,  you  be 
the  beater  for  a  yoimg  un.  Why,  I  guess 
I'll  hafter,  if  I  can  find  anything  tu  feed 
the  oV  giui  with.     Le'  me  go  an'  see  !  " 

He  soon  reappeared  with  the  ancient 
weapon,  and  began  loading,  while  Sammy 
curiously  watched  the  mysterious  process, 
the  measure  of  black  grains  poured  do^^^l  the 
long  barrel,  the  wadding  of  tow  that  followed, 
then  the  handful  of  pellets  rattling  after, 
blue  as  frost  gi-apes  with  long  keeping,  then 
another  wad  of  tow,  and  the  final  priming, 
and  then  the  wonder  of  it  all,  that  this  dead 
inert  filling  of  an  iron  tube  was  to  bring 
about  the  killing  of  pigeons.  But  it  nuist 
be  that  one  so  old  as  Grau'ther  Hill  knew 
that  it  was  all  right,  and  so  in  the  fulhiess 
of  faith  Sammy  grasped  the  patriarch's  staff, 
two  feet  below  the  wrinkled  hand,  and  set 
forth  to  guide  him  to  the  shad  tree. 

They  held   across  the  pastui'e  and  drew 


70  SAM'S   BOY 

near  the  edge  of  the  woods,  until  they  saw 
the  slender  Amelanchier,  its  branches  bent 
with  the  weight  of  the  crowding  pigeons, 
jostling  each  other  and  clapping  their  wings 
to  maintain  foothold.  The  old  man  left  his 
little  comrade  crouching  beside  a  stump, 
while  he  went  forward,  bending  low  in 
range  of  a  great  beech.  Gainmg  this  he 
straightened  himself  and  peered  cautiously 
out  from  behind  it.  Then  Sammy  saw  the 
long  barrel  raised  and  leveled,  heard  the 
cHck  of  the  flint,  saw  the  flash  and  smoke, 
the  puff  of  priming,  the  belch  of  fire  and 
smoke  from  the  muzzle,  an  upward  flash  of 
resplendent  wings,  a  downright  fall  of  sev- 
eral feathered  forms,  amid  the  echoing  roar 
of  the  gun  and  the  simultaneous  roar  of  a 
hundred  pairs  of  wings  clapping  aU  at  once 
in  startled  flight,  with  cripples  dribbing  out 
of  the  flock  as  it  whirled  away  into  the 
depths  of  the  woods. 

Sammy  ran  forward  to  the  scene  of  slaugh- 
ter, to  which  Gran'ther  Hill  hobbled  with 
all  s])eed  and  began  picking  up  the  birds, 
giving  the  cripples  a  merciful  quietus  with 
a  i^mich  of  the  thumb  in  the  skull. 


WOOD   FOLKS  71 

"  Thirteen  on  'em,  the'  be !  "  he  declared, 
upon  completing-  the  count.  "  Wal,  Bub, 
that  hain't  so  bad  for  two  ol'  fellers  'at  run 
away  tu  go  a-huntin' !  An'  what  a  lot  o' 
sarvice  baries !  The'  '11  be  pigeons  here 
'most  any  day  for  a  spell ;  hens  in  the  mornin', 
cocks  in  the  arternoon." 

Then  he  plucked  out  four  of  the  long 
tail  feathers,  and  tying  two  of  the  plume 
ends  together  he  strung  the  birds  through 
the  soft  middle  of  the  nether  bill  in  two 
bunches.  The  larger  he  slung  upon  the  bar- 
rel of  the  gun,  the  smaller  he  consigned  to 
Sammy's  care,  who  slung  it  on  a  stick  over  his 
shoulder,  and  so  the  two  trudged  homeward, 
the  one  as  proud  as  the  other,  while  the  elder 
told  of  the  marvelous  flights  of  pigeons  in 
olden  times,  when  the  sky  was  darkened  by 
the  endless  hordes. 

"  Why,  where  on  this  livin'  airth  did  ye 
git  them  pigeons  ?  "  cried  Uncle  Lisha,  ad- 
justing his  spectacles  to  verify  his  first  sight 
of  the  proud  little  hunter's  trophy. 

"  Me  an'  Gran'ther  shot  'em  with  a  gun !  " 
Sammy  resjionded,  and  marched  into  the 
kitchen,  where  he  was  received  with  excla- 


^A\rs  BOY 


and  3-"""'^-tMm  by  his 

—  -j^  -Ten  Drive 

-     -   ^      _e  birds, 

T   :        .„:    than  bazdh* 

„      :  _1  f eazber 


-Xaowr.  I 


.as  sue  - 


"  w  ^ 


^-z    -i='~  :_ir:d  was  on 

^j^   -      :  dr^HJed 

,^      -  ^       -   .  --  ---_-'                               f 

tie  box.  ^ 


WOOD  FOLKS  73 

its  own-     Saminy  vi-^^-^^^i  tlie  r-sra.-- 

mom^ir  in.    ?7>?e>:-l^     -  c 

DriYe.  w:  ^        :±    z      1t   ^^e. 

ntteit  . 

the  suffering  :                 :_t 
baby  set  np  a  57              tie  yelL 

-  Ob-  Uncle  LisHer :  "  l  :  1- 

ingintohis-  .oni  insiry 

tried  tu  sfng.  aa   siie  so:  '              - 
Ccwne  an"  stop  h             £ 

"  T             "r    ^^v .      si:  '    -. 

recvivlL^  _  _  :~ 

not  wt    -    ._._:_                 .            --_._:.  If 

we  got  a  laig  on  ^. --    -^—     —-^   r  t 

would  spile  oer  gait :  ar'  "-  — -  r  -e 

on  the  back  side  of  ht                -  i 

never  take  no  snuff,  ai-            int  I^?^^T■  t^ 

happy  agin.     I  gness  we  ^»r»?n"t  :e 
that  job.  but  I  "U  tell  ye  •                , 
'ere  slic«es  done,  an"  if                 ,             j  wi* 

me,  an'  not  \ 
I  "11  show  re  sut            otr  ! "' 


74  SAM'S  BOY 

Uncle  Lisha  gave  a  lielj)ing  finger  to  his 
little  crony  as  they  set  forth  across  the  fields, 
as  happy  in  present  freedom  from  care  as 
the  bobolinks  that  blithely  sang  above  their 
brown  mates  nesting  in  the  tangled  clover 
tufts. 

"  Hold  on,  Unc'  Lisher  !  "  Sammy  cried, 
letting  go  and  pouncing  upon  something  in 
the  grass.  "  There  's  a  —  Oh,  pshaw  ! 
't  ain't  notliin'  but  a  red  leaf !  "  ending  his 
triumphant  shout  in  a  tone  of  disappoint- 
ment. "  I  thought  it  was  a  ripe  straw- 
berry." 

"  No,  it 's  tew  airly  for  'em  yet,"  said  Un- 
cle Lisha.  "  But  in  'baout  a  fortni't  there  '11 
be  gobs  on  'em,  an'  then,  says  I,  we  '11  all 
come  up  here  an'  get  sights.  My,  what  a 
mess  o'  blows  !  The  graound  's  jest  white. 
Naow  le'  's  keep  jes'  as  still  as  tew  mice,"  he 
said,  dropping  his  voice  as  they  began  the 
ascent  of  a  knoll  near  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
stooping  as  they  neared  the  summit  until  he 
was  on  all  fours  and  peering  cautiously  over 
the  top  of  the  knoll. 

Then  after  a  moment  of  watching  and 
wondering,  Sammy,  lying  prone  a  little  be- 


WOOD  FOLKS  75 

hind,  was  beckoned  to  a  place  beside  him, 
and  gaining  it,  saw  five  fluliy  little  yellow 
animals  with  pi'icked  black  ears  and  black 
stockings  on  their  slender  legs.  They  were 
playing  no  end  of  cunning  pranks  near  the 
entrance  of  a  burrow,  where  a  mound  of 
yellow  earth  was  thrown  out,  hard  trodden, 
and  littered  with  bones  and  feathers. 

"  Oh,  what  cunnin'  little  doggies !  " 
Sammy  whispered  in  a  state  of  excitement 
that  threatened  to  become  too  loud  in  ex- 
pression. "  Whose  be  they,  Unc'  Lislier  ? 
Say,  can't  I  have  one  ?  " 

"  S-s-s-h-h !  Them 's  foxes.  Ta'  keer 
you  don't  skeer  'em,"  the  old  man  cautioned, 
and  the  two  spies  lay  quite  still,  watching 
the  cubs  now  tumbling  over  each  other,  now 
engaged  in  mimic  battle,  now  all  but  one  pre- 
tending to  fall  asleep,  while  he  began  bury- 
ing the  leg  of  a  lamb  in  the  loose  earth,  but 
desisted  when  he  saw  that  the  eyes  of  all  his 
mates  were  upon  him,  then  unearthed  the 
half -buried  treasure  and  sought  a  new  liiding 
place.  Presently  at  some  slight  sound  be- 
yond them,  all  suddenly  became  alert  in 
that  direction,  and  the  mother  appeared,  her 


76  SAM'S   BOY 

mouth  fringed  with  field  mice,  for  which 
there  was  at  once  a  scramble,  and  yet  a  fair 
distribution  of  them.  The  cares  of  house- 
keeping and  maternity  had  not  fallen  more 
lightly  on  Madam  Vixen  than  they  do  on 
many  human  mothers  ;  her  once  sleek  and 
bright  tawny  fur  was  faded  to  a  pale  yellow, 
and  was  rough  and  ragged,  and  there  was 
the  weariness  of  constant  anxiety  on  her 
shrewd  face  as  she  stretched  herself  at 
length  on  the  sward,  and  interestedly  watched 
her  chilcb'en  make  way  with  the  tidbits  she 
had  brought  them. 

Their  lunch  ended,  the  young  rascals 
made  exceedingly  free  with  her,  romping 
about  and  over  her,  and  receiving  no  chas- 
tisement for  their  rudeness,  but  an  occa- 
sional pretended  bite  or  a  light  cuff  of  a 
fore  paw.  When  the  unseen  and  unsuspected 
audience  had  watched  the  performance  until 
the  old  man's  stiff  joints  and  the  child's  rest- 
less body  were  tired  of  keeping  still,  Uncle 
Lisha  pursed  his  lips  and  imitated  the  squeak 
of  a  mouse,  whereat  the  mother  pricked  her 
ears  and  started  up,  and  her  children  became 
as  alert  as  she.     The  sound  was  repeated, 


WOOD  FOLKS  77 

and  she  began  a  slow  advance,  twisting  her 
head  comically  as  she  listened  and  tried  to 
locate  the  sound. 

So  she  kept  drawing  nearer  until  she  was 
looking  straight  into  Uncle  Lisha's  eyes,  and 
a  suspicion  dawned  upon  her  that  here  was 
something  not  quite  right.  The  hair  rose 
on  her  neck  and  back ;  her  jaws  opened  to 
utter  a  gasping  bark  ;  she  sprang  backward. 
The  cubs  scampered  into  the  nearest  open- 
ing of  the  burrow,  jostling  each  other  for 
first  place,  and  disappearing  in  a  twinkling; 
when  the  mother  turned  tail  and  scudded 
away  to  a  safe  distance  beyond,  where  she 
gave  full  vent  to  her  displeasure  in  continu- 
ous gasping  barks. 

Uncle  Lisha  led  Sammy  over  to  the  bur- 
row and  showed  him  the  odd  assemblage  of 
kitchen  middens,  —  the  shanks  of  a  lamb, 
the  foot  of  a  hare,  the  wings  of  chickens, 
ducks,  and  a  partridge,  and,  most  conspicu- 
ous of  all,  the  broad,  barred  pinion  of  a 
turkey. 

"  I  s'pect  them  'ere  b' longed  tu  Joel  Bart- 
lett's  ol'  gobbler,  an'  I  hearn  haow  'at  Joel 
has  faound  aout  this  'ere  fox  den,  an'  '11  be 


78  SAM'S   BOY 

up  here  tu-niglit  a-diggin'  on  'em  aout. 
That  'cl  spile  a  lot  o'  fun  for  yer  daddy  next 
fall,  an'  I  'm  jest  a-goin'  tu  give  tliis  'ere  ol' 
lady  a  hint  tu  move." 

With  that  he  began  filling  his  pipe,  but 
taking  no  pains  not  to  scatter  tobacco,  and 
lighting  it  with  an  unnecessary  number  of 
matches,  the  stumps  of  which  were  dropped 
about  the  several  entrances,  where  he  also 
spat  profusely. 

"  There,"  he  said,  looking  with  satisfac- 
tion on  the  general  untidiness.  "  I  '11  war- 
rant ye  she  '11  move  her  fam'ly  up  inter  some 
laidsre  in  the  woods,  an'  the  skunks  can  hev 
these  'ere  lodgin's  arter  tu-day.  I  cal'late 
she  does  more  good  a-ketchin'  mice  'an  what 
hurt  she  does  ketchin'  turkeys ;  an'  as  fer 
lambs,  if  folks  'U  rub  some  sulphur  ontu  'em, 
the  foxes  won't  tetch  'em,  an'  'twould  be 
tew  bad  tu  hev  sech  fun  as  they  '11  make 
right  handy  by  for  yer  daddy,  an'  sech  a 
good  time  as  they  're  a-hevin'  on,  all  spilte 
jest  for  nothin',  as  you  might  say.  An' 
naow  I  da'  say  she  won't  so  much  as  thank 
you  an'  me  for  a-doin'  of  her  a  good  turn, 
but  '11  keep  a-scoldin'  on  us  for  stinkin'  up 


WOOD  FOLKS  79 

her  haouse  wi'  terbacker  along  arter  she 's 
got  set  up  m  her  new  quarters  ;  but  we  can 
Stan'  it,  an'  we  had  a  good  time  watchin'  on 
her.  My !  haow  pleasant  it  looks  in  the 
woods,  an'  haow  neat  the  grape  blows  smells  ! 
It  'most  makes  me  wish  'at  I  was  a  ol'  fox, 
a-li\dn'  free  in  the  woods  an'  fields,  'thaout 
nob'dy's  boots  an'  shoes  tu  bother  wdth,  nor 
nob'dy  tu  take  thought  on.  But  then  by'm 
by  they  '11  haf ter  turn  aout  an'  shift  for  their- 
selves,  a-huntin'  mice  by  the  squeakin'  on  'em, 
an'  stealin'  chickens  an'  turkeys  an'  lambs,  an' 
a^sneakin'  raound  the  woods  arter  pa'tridges 
an'  rabbits,  an'  lookin'  aout  fer  traps  'at 's  sot, 
an'  a-larnin'  runways,  an'  gittin'  chased  by 
haoun'  dogs,  an'  gittin'  shot,  an'  their  own 
mother  not  carin'  no  more'n  if  'twas  any 
other  fox.  So  I  guess  on  the  hul  I  'd  ruther 
be  Uncle  Lisher,  a-shoolin'  raoun'  the  woods 
an'  lots  wi'  a  leetle  boy,  a-lookin'  at  what 
the  good  Lord  hes  made  for  us,  thankful  tu 
be  right  'mongst  it  all,  an'  tu  hev  som'b'dy 
tu  hum  a-waitin'  for  us,  an'  a^keerin'  for  us. 
Hity-tity,  ju'  look  at  this  !  " 

They  were  skirting  the  open  edge  of  the 
woods,  where  in  the  mottled  shade  of  new 


80  SAM'S  BOY 

leafage  a  profusion  of  forest  annuals  were 
spreading  their  tender  leaves  above  the  mat 
of  last  year's  drab  and  russet,  wild  ginger, 
sarsapariUa,  bloodroot,  moose  flower,  liver- 
wort, and  fern,  and  the  tender  sprouts  of 
seedling  trees,  when  there  was  an  outburst 
of  clucking  and  a  furious  flutter  of  gray 
feathers  at  their  very  feet,  and  a  spattering 
abroad  of  a  number  of  unaccountable  yellow 
balls  that  vanished  as  soon  as  seen,  when  the 
bewitched  rumple  of  gray  feathers  went 
tumbling  and  fluttering  along  the  ground 
with  Sammy  in  hot  pursuit.  Uncle  Lisha 
stood  still  a  moment,  then  with  his  hat  in 
both  hands  pounced  down  upon  a  bunch  of 
broad-leafed  wild  ginger,  and  groping  be- 
neath it  presently  drew  forth  the  prettiest 
of  downy  chicks. 

Sammy  was  recalled  from  his  fruitless 
chase  to  see  and  admire  it  in  the  cage  of 
Uncle  Lisha' s  hollowed  hands.  Then,  in 
spite  of  entreaties  and  protests,  it  was  care- 
fully set  down,  and  vanished  as  if  the  earth 
had  absorbed  it. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Lisher,  you  don't  let  me  hev 
nothin'  !  "  Sammy  cried,  almost  at  the  point 


WOOD   FOLKS  81 

of  tears.  "  Whose  leetle  hen  is  it  ?  An' 
why  could  n't  I  hev  jest  one  chicken,  nor  one 
leetle  cloggy  ?  " 

"  "Why,  sonny,  they  'cl  only  run  away  or 
die,  an'  not  du  nob'dy  no  good,  jes'  the  same 
as  if  I  gin  you  to  the  ol'  fox  or  the  ol' 
pa'tridge.  An'  naow  I  cal'late  we  've  seen 
'baout  'nough  for  one  day,  an'  we  '11  go  hum 
an'  see  if  that  'ere  pigeon  pie  hain't  'baout 
ready.  Here  we  go,  wi'  nothin'  tu  show, 
but  lots  tu  remember." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

NEW    COMRADES 

Not  many  days  after  this  tlie  old  shoe- 
maker and  his  little  comrade  were  strolling 
along  the  brook  in  the  idle  observation  of 
many  curious  and  beautifid  things.  Now  it 
was  trout  flashing  from  one  hiding  place  to 
another  ;  now  the  golden  shimmer  of  a  sand- 
bank beneath  sunlit  ripples  ;  now  a  sand- 
piper flitting  before  them  on  sickle-shaped 
wings,  or  alighting  in  the  water's  edge  and 
balancing  itself  on  its  slender  legs  with  odd, 
jerky  teetering  of  its  body ;  now  the  mossy 
nest  of  a  phoebe-bird,  stuck  like  a  pocket  on 
the  face  of  a  rock,  and  one  of  its  little  build- 
ers and  owners  calling  sharply  from  various 
perches,  "  Phoebe,  Phoebe  !  " 

"  That 's  his  wife's  name,  and  he 's  forever 
arcaUin'  of  her,  so  's  't  I  should  think  she  'd 
git  sick  an'  tired  o'  hearin'  on't,"  Uncle 
Lisha  explained. 


NEW  COMRADES  83 

They  were  approaching  a  grove  out  of 
which  the  brook  came,  and  with  its  chan- 
ging babble  was  heard  the  clear  resonant 
sound  of  measured  strokes  mingling  with 
their  own  cool,  shivering  echoes,  such  as  are 
heard  only  in  leafy  woodland  interiors,  and 
which  alone  repeat  the  bell  and  flute  of  the 
wood  and  hermit  thrushes. 

"  Someb'dy  or  'nother  's  a-paoundin'  basket 
stuff,"  said  Uncle  Lisha,  after  listening  a 
moment ;  "  but  who  on  airth  it  is,  is  more  'n 
I  can  guess." 

But  the  riddle  was  solved  when  upon  en- 
tering the  woods  they  discovered  a  dingy 
tent  pitched  beside  the  brook,  and  near  it 
two  men  and  a  woman,  aU  with  faces  the 
color  of  new  copper  cents,  and  eyes  and  hair 
as  black  as  a  crow's  wing.  One  of  the  men 
was  belaboring  a  peeled  ash  log  from  end  to 
end  with  the  head  of  an  axe ;  the  other  was 
splitting  long,  slender  spruce  roots  in  twain  ; 
and  the  woman  was  wea\ang  a  pretty  basket 
of  red,  blue,  and  yellow  splints. 

"  Why,  good  airth  an'  seas,  if  it  hain't 
Injuns  I  "  Uncle  Lisha  exclaimed  ;  and  at 
the  name  and  the  recollections  of  Gran'ther 


84  SAM'S  BOY 

Hill's  tales  Sammy's  heart  sank  and  his  hair 
arose. 

"  Injuns  !  Oh,  le'  's  run,  Unc'  Lisher  !  " 
he  gasped,  with  a  backward  tug  at  the  finger 
he  clung  to. 

"  Why,  bless  his  heart,  they  won't  hurt 
nob'dy,  an'  mebby  we'll  git  a  pooty  baskit 
or  so'thin'  tu  kerry  home  wi'  us,"  said  Uncle 
Lislia  reassuringly,  and  marched  straight 
into  the  camp  in  the  most  reckless  manner, 
hailing  its  occupants  with  a  hearty,  "  Haow 
d'  du."  The  man  who  was  hammering  the 
log  suspended  his  labor,  grinned  amiably, 
and  responded :  — 

"  Quiee." 

The  root-splitter  glanced  up  at  the  visi- 
tors and  made  a  like  response,  and  the  woman 
smiled  on  the  little  boy  in  a  way  that  quite 
dispelled  his  fears. 

"  Gittin'  aout  baskit  splints,  be  ye  ? " 
Uncle  Lisha  inquired.  "  Wal,  your  womern's 
a-makin'  a  neat  one  sartain.  An'  what 's 
t'other  feller  cal'late  tu  du  wi'  them  spruce 
rhuts,  if  I  might  ask  ?  " 

"  Sew  um  canoe,"  the  splint  poimder  an- 
swered laconically. 


NEW   COMRADES  85 

"  Oh,  you  're  a-goin'  tu  make  a  kernew, 
hey  ?  "  the  okl  man  asked,  and  soon  descried 
a  great  roll  of  fresldy  peeled  birch  bark. 

"  Yas,  make  um  canoe,"  the  Indian  an- 
swered. "  No  git  um  good  bark  dar,"  indi- 
cating the  lake  valley  by  a  nod  in  that  direc- 
tion. "  Tree  too  small.  Me  come  here 
five-six  year  'go.  Make  um  canoe  for  Sam 
Lovet.     You  know  um  Sam  Lovet  ?  " 

"  Sam  Lovel !  Good  Lord,  yes  !  I  live 
'long  wi'  him,  an'  this  'ere  's  his  boy." 

"  Hees  boy?  Wal,  he  nice  boy,"  the  In- 
dian said,  regarding  Sammy  with  more  in- 
terest, as  did  his  companions  after  he  had 
spoken  to  them  in  their  own  language,  whose 
soft  monotony  feU  in  with  the  babble  of  the 
brook  and  the  murmur  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees  as  harmoniously  as  if  it  were  but  an 
other  voice  of  nature.  "  Lovet  good  man," 
he  said,  leaning  his  axe  against  the  log  and 
slouching  over  to  a  bunch  of  baskets  hanging 
on  a  tent  pole.  He  selected  a  small  bright- 
colored  one  and  put  it  in  Sammy's  timid 
hands.  "  Me  give  boy  dat  for  peek  um 
berry ; "  and  Sammy  stared  speechlessly 
until  prompted  by  his  mentor. 


86  SAM'S   BOY 

"An'  wha'  d'  ye  say  for  that,  Bub?" 
And  then  in  confusion  he  stammered,  — 

"  Thank  ye,  marm." 

Uncle  Lisha  seated  himself  comfortably 
at  a  favorable  point  of  observation,  and 
having  filled  his  pipe  offered  tobacco  to  the 
Indians,  who  filled  and  lighted  their  pipes  ; 
while  the  little  boy  sat  in  rapt  admiration  of 
his  basket,  as  fascinating  ui  its  smoky,  woodsy 
odor  as  in  its  bright  colors  and  neat  work- 
manship. When  his  eyes  were  taken  off  it 
their  attention  was  divided  between  the  nim- 
ble fingers  of  the  woman  and  those  of  the 
man,  so  skillfidly  splitting  the  slender  roots 
that  the  halves  were  always  of  like  thick- 
ness, coaxed  to  equal  division  by  slight  turns 
of  the  wrists. 

"  Haow  much  be  you  a-goin'  tu  tax  me  for 
a  bow-arrer  the  right  size  for  a  chap  like 
this  'ere  ?  "  indicating  Sammy  by  a  twist  of 
the  thumb. 

"  Oh,  guess  twen'-five  cen',  bow  an'  one 
arrer,"  the  Indian  answered,  taking  mea- 
sure with  his  eye  of  the  prosj)ective  archer. 
After  duly  considering  the  matter  Uncle 
Lisha  gave  the  order  wdth  the  addition  of 


NEW   COMRADES  87 

another  arrow,  foreseeing  that  one  would  be 
lost,  and  that  there  shoidd  be  another  to  send 
in  search  of  it. 

The  sphnt  pounder  picked  up  an  unavail- 
able bit  of  basket  stuff  and  at  once  began 
fashioning  an  arrow  with  a  pecuhar  crooked 
knife,  which  he  held  with  his  palm  upward 
and  always  diew  toward  him.     In  all  their 
movements  these  people  were  so  deliberate 
as  if  to-day  would  wait  on  them  indefi- 
nitely and  the  morrow  was  not  to  be  con- 
sidered —  that  Uncle  Lisha  covdd  not  help 
thinking  how  Joseph  Hill  would  envy  their 
infinite  leisure.     If  it  were  to  hght  a  pipe 
or  to  save  a  bit  of  meat  from  burning,  the 
one  was  gone  about  as  deliberately  as  the 
other,  and   one  could  but  think  good   and 
bad  fortune  would  be  accepted  with  equal 
equanimity. 

Sammy's  heart  was  won  by  the  gift  of 
the  basket,  and  the  Indians  had  taken  as 
kindly  to  him,  so  that  during  their  stay  he 
was  a  welcome  and  frequent  visitor,  with 
Uncle  Lisha,  his  father,  or  his  mother,  whom 
he  brought  to  the  camp  and  introduced. 
When  it  came  to  building  the  canoe  he  was 


88  SAM'S   BOY 

never  tired  of  watching  the  patient  work, 
from  the  smoothing  of  the  ground  and  driv- 
ing the  stakes,  the  weighting  down  of  the 
frame  with  stones  upon  the  great  sheet  of 
bark,  the  shtting  of  it  and  sewing,  when  the 
spruce  roots  came  to  play  their  part,  the 
raising  of  the  frame  to  its  place,  as  gun- 
wales and  crossbars,  the  Hning  of  the  canoe 
with  cedar  strips,  lengthwise  and  athwart, 
and  the  final  pitching  of  seams  with  turpen- 
tine and  gi-ease  ;  until  the  beautiful  craft, 
stanch  and  light,  was  ready  for  voyaging 
over  the  shallows  of  shaded  woodland  streams 
or  the  turbulent  depths  of  the  lake. 

Sammy  became  exi3ert  enough  with  the 
bow  to  frighten  the  chipmunks  he  shot  at, 
and  one  day  came  to  the  camp  boasting  that 
he  had  hit  the  ear  of  a  hare  that  he  found 
sitting  in  her  form. 

"  An'  what  makes  a  rabbit  have  such 
long  ears  an'  hind  legs  ?  "  he  asked  Tock- 
soose,  who  was  chief  spokesman  of  the  In- 
dian trio  in  their  intercourse  with  their 
white  neighbors. 

"  Oh,  dat  come  so,  long  time  'go,"  Tock- 
soose  answered,  as  he  punched  the  bark  with 


NEW  COMRADES  89 

an  awl  and  followed  it  with  a  thread  of  root. 
"  Den  rabbit  have  long  tail  an'  short  hin' 
leg  an'  ear  jus'  same  anybody.  Den  one  day 
fox  be  hungry  an'  chase  rabbit,  oh,  very 
hard,  so  rabbit  run  in  hole  in  rock,  —  so  big 
hole  fox  can  run  in  too.  Den  rabbit  go  in 
far  end,  an'  dar  lee'l  hole  go  out,  jus'  mos' 
big  'nough  so  rabbit  can  go  t'rough  an'  fox 
ketch  it  by  his  leg  an'  pull,  an'  rabbit  pull 
with  fore  leg  an'  cry  so  hard  like  baby ; 
squaw  hear  an'  come  for  help  it ;  ketch  hoi' 
ear  an'  pull  so  fox  le'  go  leg  an'  pull  tail,  so 
tail  pull  off  short,  an'  squaw  pidl  rabbit  out. 
But  he  look  so  he  ain't  know  hese'f ,  — -  ear 
puU  out  long,  hin'  leg  pull  out  long,  an'  tail 
all  pidl  off  mos'  ;  an'  when  fox  see,  he  ain't 
know  it  was  rabbit,  an'  he  jump  so  far  wid 
dat  long  hin'  leg  he  can't  ketch  it.  Den 
when  winter  come  an'  snow  fall,  rabbit  set 
stiU  an'  let  snow  come  all  over  him,  so  fox 
can't  see  him  close  by  if  he  shut  up  hees 
eye ;  an'  now  he  always  have  ear  an'  hin' 
leg  long  an'  tail  short,  an'  he  white  in  win- 
ter." 

"  That 's   a   real   good   story,   Mr.   Tock- 
soose,"    said  Sammy,  only  eager   for  more. 


90  SAM'S   BOY 

"  An'  was  it  some  such  way  the  minks  got 
black  ?  " 

"Yas,  guess  so.  You  see,  Wonakake  — 
dat  's  otter  —  got  mad  'cause  mink  ketch 
um  so  many  fish,  so  he  chase  mink  for 
kill  it,  an'  mink  pooty  scare.  He  all  white 
then  jus'  same  weasel  in  winter,  so  otter  can 
see  it  great  way  off ;  an'  mink  can't  hide. 
So  he  run  in  where  fire  burn  tree  an'  rub 
hese'f  on  burnt  tree  so  he  all  black.  Den 
he  turn  roun'  an'  walk  back,  an'  by'ni  by 
meet  otter  run  hard.  Otter  ain't  know  dat 
black  feller,  an'  ask  it,  '  You  see  mink  go 
dis  way  ? '  Mink  say  no,  he  an't  see  it. 
Otter  t'ink  funny  he  can  smell  mink  but 
can't  see  it,  an'  run  on  fast,  but  never  ketch 
um  mink.  Mink  like  um  color  so  well  he 
always  keep  it,  an'  ketch  'em  more  fish  as 
ever,  'cause  fish  can't  see  um  so  easy,  an'  so 
he  be  black  now." 

"That's  a  good  story,  too,"  Sammy  gave 
cordial  approval.  "  Won't  you  tell  some 
more  ?  " 

"  No,  dat  all  me  know  for  tell  um  to- 
day," Tocksoose  answered,  intent  upon  his 
sewing.     Sammy  thought  it  strange  that  a 


NEW   COMRADES  91 

man  of  such  experience  in  woodcraft  should 
have  but  two  stories  to  tell  in  one  day,  yet 
remained  silent  while  he  watched  Mrs.  Tock- 
soose  preparing  some  trout  for  cooking. 

She  slipped  six  dressed  trout  crosswise 
into  the  cleft  of  a  green  wand,  tied  the  cleft 
end  together  with  a  strip  of  bark,  thrust  the 
other  end  into  the  groimd  and  slanted  this 
primitive  broiler  at  a  proper  angle  over  the 
coals,  and  then  resumed  her  basket  weaving 
after  washing  her  hands  in  the  brook,  —  for 
she  kept  them  scrupulously  clean  for  this 
delicate  work,  though  nothing  else  in  the 
camji  showed  so  much  care.  Sammy  thought 
Uncle  Lisha's  mode  of  cooking  fish  prefer- 
able to  hers,  but  forbore  any  disparaging 
comments. 

"  Did  n't  you  never  kill  no  bears  ? "  he 
asked,  turning  his  attention  to  the  canoe 
maker  with  a  view  to  more  stories. 

"  Yas,  me  killum  good  many  bear,"  Tock- 
soose  answered. 

"  Ilaow  du  you  hunt  'em?  " 

"  Oh,  bes'  time  in  fall  when  fust  snow 
come.  Den  bear  go  look  for  place  sleep  all 
winter,  an'  me  foller  track  in  snow.     Some 


92  SAM'S   BOY 

time  find  'em  in  hole  of  rock ;  den  no  can 
get  um.  Some  time  he  jus'  curl  up  an'  go 
sleep  imder  root  where  tree  blow  over  ;  den 
can  git  um  easy.     Jus'  shoot  an'  kill  um." 

"  Oh,  hain't  that  fun  ? "  cried  Sammy, 
hugging  his  knees. 

"  Some  time ;  not  all  time,"  said  Tock- 
soose.  "  One  day  me  track  um  bear  so  un- 
der tree.  Den  look  um  in  for  see.  Bear 
mad  for  be  wake  up,  jus'  same  you  s'pose 
you  git  sleep  all  good,  den  somebody  come 
wake  you.  Bear  come  out,  '  Woof  ! '  Me 
ketch  um  foot  on  stick,  fall  on  back ;  bear 
come  right  top,  bite  hard  —  see  !  "  He 
showed  some  ugly  scars  on  one  hand.  "  Den 
open  mout'  for  bite  more.  My  brodder 
right  close  by ;  shoot  um  bear  right  in  head ; 
faU  right  on  me  ;  blood  plenty  all  over  me. 
Den  skin  um  bear,  git  um  lot  grease,  git  um 
lot  meat,  git  um  bounty.     Dat  all  right," 

"  That  wa'n't  all  so  much  fun,"  said 
Sammy,  and  then  began  teasing  for  more ; 
but  nothing  further  was  to  be  got  from 
Tocksoose  that  day,  so  the  boy  reluctantly 
went  his  way  homeward. 

"  Well,  where  's  mammy's  man  been  all 


NEW   COMRADES  93 

this  time?"  his  mother  asked  as  he  made 
his  appearance  in  the  kitchen. 

"Oh,  huntin'  an'  visitin'  'long  wi'  the 
Injuns,"  he  answered,  going  over  to  the 
cradle  to  inspect  the  sleeping  baby. 

"  Well,  he  ought  to  ask  afore  he  goes  off 
so.  Mammy  worries  when  she  don't  know 
where  her  little  man  is." 

"  Unc'  Lisher  don't  ask  when  he  goes," 
Sammy  argued  in  excuse. 

"  Oh,  but  Uncle  Lisher  is  a  great  big 
growed-up  man  ;  the'  would  n't  nothin'  hurt 
hun.     S'posin'  a  bear  ketched  Sammy  ?  " 

"  I    do'    know,    'cause    I    hain't    got    no 

brother  to  shoot  him,  as  Mr.  Tocksoose  had 

when  a  bear  come  right  top  on  him.     Baby 

could  n't,  'cause  she  hain't  big  'nough.     Say, 

I  'm  a-goin'  tu  ask  darkter  to  bring  me  one." 

"  Or  s'posin'  he  got  lost,  same  as  Aunt 

Polly  did  oncte  an'  would  ha'  died  'way  off 

in  the  woods  if  daddy  hed  n't  faound  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  1  'd  holler    an'  he  'd  find  me,"  he 

answered,  in  the  fullness  of  perfect  faith. 

"  Well,  he  must  n't  go  'way  so  any  more," 
said  Iluldah  in  final  disposition  of  the  ques- 
tion. 


94  SAM'S   BOY 

Having  this  rule  impressed  upon  him, 
Sammy's  next  visit  to  the  Indian  camp  was 
made  with  his  mother's  permission.  As  he 
drew  near  he  heard  no  sound  but  the  con- 
tinual babbling  of  the  brook  and  the  occa- 
sional joining  with  it  of  a  wood  thrush's 
song,  like  a  jangle  of  silver  bells.  When  he 
came  to  the  place  he  found  it  quite  de- 
serted, —  the  dingy  tent  gone,  the  beds  of 
evergreen  twigs  naked  of  blankets,  the  fire 
dead,  the  last  used  wooden  spit  and  broiler 
slanted  over  the  cold  ashes  beneath  the 
blackened  crotches  and  pole  on  which  the 
kettle  used  to  swing  as  it  bubbled  and 
seethed  so  cheerily.  The  ground  was  lit- 
tered with  shavings,  refuse  splints,  and  scraps 
of  birch  bark  warped  into  yellow  rolls.  It 
aU  looked  so  desolate  and  deserted  that  poor 
Sammy  was  heavy-hearted  enough  over  the 
departure  of  his  friends,  —  gone  like  summer 
birds,  without  warning  or  farewell. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEPARTURE    OF    AN    OLD    FRIEND 

"Wal,  Mr.  Bow-arrer,  where  you  be'n 
all  this  time  ? "  Uncle  Lisha  asked,  trying 
different  views  of  his  visitor  over,  through, 
and  under  his  glasses,  and  at  last  shoving 
them  up  on  his  forehead.  "  I  sh'll  hafter 
turn  ye  off  an'  look  me  up  another  boy  if 
you  hain't  stiddier !  "         » 

"  I  hain't  a-goin'  tu  any  more,"  Sammy 
said  penitently,  "  'cause  mammy  says  the 
bears  '11  eat  me  an'  I  '11  get  lost." 

"  Nat-rally,"  said  Uncle  Lisha  ;  "  an' 
naow  what  you  be'n  a-doin'  on  ?  " 

"  Oh,  shootin'  chipmunks  an'  hearin' 
stories,"  said  the  boy,  swallowing  ineffectu- 
ally at  a  dry  mouthful  of  doughnut.  "  Say, 
Unc'  Lisher,  Mis'  Tocksoose  can't  cook  fish 
half  so  good  as  you  can.  She  jes'  lets  'em 
cook  'emselves,  an'  she  's  a  woman,  tew." 

"  Yes,  sort  o'  one ;  but  she  's  a  squaw," 


96  SAM'S   BOY 

said  the  old  man  apologetically.  "  But  haow 
many  chipmunks  did  ye  git  ?  " 

"  Wal,  not  any,  quite,"  Sammy  admitted ; 
"  but  I  scairt  every  one  I  shot  at,  most." 

"  So  you  scairt  the  poor  leetle  creeturs, 
an'  thought  it  was  fun  !  Wal,  I  sh'd  think 
you  'd  ruther  sot  an'  watched  'em." 

"  Why,  wa'n't  it  fun  tu  try  tu  kill  'em, 
jes'  same  as  pigeons  an'  pa'tridges  an'  foxes?" 
Sammy  asked,  not  quite  understanding  the 
distinction  between  one  life  and  another. 

"  Wal,  if  you  kill  one  o'  them  it  '11  du 
some  good ;  but  if  you  killed  a  chipmunk  't 
would  be  one  happy  leetle  creetur  the  less  in 
the  world,  an'  nob'dy  the  better  off.  S'posin' 
the'  was  tu  come  along  a  great  big  chip- 
munk, big  as  a  boss,  —  yes,  forty  times  big- 
ger 'n  you  be,  —  an'  he  see  you  a-eatin'  yer 
nutcake,  an'  he  up  an'  let  drive  a  arrer  at  ye 
as  big  as  a  waggin  tongue,  an'  it  come  a-slam- 
bangin'  clus  tu  ye  an'  scairt  ye  half  tu  death, 
you  wouldn't  think  it  was  much  fun,  an' 
you  'd  think  he  was  a  gre't  mean  ugly  critter, 
would  n't  ye  ?  If  I  was  you  I  would  n't  tor- 
ment 'em  no  more.  It  hain't  a  good  way  tu 
kill  things  jest  for  the  sake  o'  killin'." 


DEPARTURE   OF  AN   OLD   FRIEND    97 

"  I  shot  a  frog  wi'  my  bow-arrer,"  Sammy- 
confessed,  not  without  pride  in  the  achieve- 
ment.     "Killed  him  jest  as  dead  !  " 

"  What !  You  be'n  a-killin'  frogs  ? 
Didn't  ye  know  that  'Id  make  the  caows 
give  bloody  milk  ?  "  Uncle  Lisha  demanded 
in  a  tone  of  unusual  severity. 

"  Will  it,  true,  Uncle  Lisha  ?  "  Sammy 
asked,  in  no  little  fear  of  the  consequences 
of  his  doughty  deed. 

"  That 's  what  they  useter  teU  me  when  I 
was  a  boy,  an'  I  believed  'em,"  said  Uncle 
Lisha.  "  Anyways,  if  I  was  you  I  would  n't 
kill  no  more,  'cause  they  don't  do  no  hurt 
livin'  nor  no  good  dead." 

"  Nor  humbly  ol'  tuds  ?  "  Sammy  asked. 

"  No,  indeed  !  Why,  one  on  'em  '11  ketch 
more  caowcomber  bugs  'n  you  can  shake  a 
stick  at,  an'  if  you  kill  'em  the'  '11  come  warts 
on  your  hands ! "  said  the  old  man  with 
great  emphasis. 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  Sammy  sighed  ;  "  things  I 
can  shoot,  I  must  n't ;  things  I  can,  I  can't 
shoot.  What 's  the  use  o'  havin'  a  bow- 
arrer  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  the'  's  lots  o'  things.     There 's 


98  SAM'S   BOY 

the  rats  'at  lives  in  the  suller  ;  an'  he  can  let 
flicker  at  the  red  squirrels  every  time  he 
sees  'em,  for  they  kill  the  leetle  birds  in  the 
nest.  He  just  watch  that  ol'  tud  'at  lives 
'n  under  the  doorstep  when  he  comes  aout 
this  evenin'  an'  he  won't  wanter  kill  him, 
no  more  'n  he  will  the  chipmunks  an'  frogs 
when  we  've  watched  them  a  spell." 

At  milking  time  Sammy  kept  close  over- 
sight of  the  operation  to  see  if  the  murder 
of  the  frogs  was  avenged,  and  was  much  re- 
lieved that  no  telltale  stains  discolored  the 
white  streams.  At  dusk  he  was  on  the 
watch  when  the  venerable  old  toad  came 
scuffling  forth  from  his  cool  retreat,  and  was 
delighted  to  see  the  solemn  winks,  the  ner- 
vous twitch  of  the  hinder  toes,  and  then  the 
lightning-like  flashing  out  of  the  long  tongue 
and  the  sudden  disajjpearance  of  a  doomed 

fly. 

The  next  day  Uncle  Lisha  took  him  out  to 
the  sunny  bank  of  the  brook,  beloved  of 
chipmunks,  and  together  they  watched  the 
frolics  of  the  pretty  creatures  about  holes 
whose  neat  entrances  showed  no  traces  of 
the  inner  earth  removed,  and  saw  them  fill 


DEPARTURE   OF  AN   OLD   FRIEND     99 

their  pouched  cheeks  with  the  small  stores 
they  gathered  and  brought  home,  and  then 
the  old  shoemaker  beguiled  them  into  chasing 
the  leafy  end  of  a  willow  wand  as  he  dragged 
it  to  and  fro  before  them,  until  the  youthful 
observer  was  quite  charmed  with  their  pretty 
tricks  and  lost  desire  to  take  their  lives. 

Then  Uncle  Lisha  crept  down  to  the 
brook  where  a  green  bullfrog  sat  on  a  tuft  of 
wild  grass  and  began  gently  tickling  his  sides 
with  the  tip  of  the  wand.  After  the  first 
shiver  of  surprise  the  frog  blinked  and  his 
mouth  seemed  to  widen  with  a  smile  of  con- 
tentment ;  he  edged  around  until  he  squarely 
faced  his  charmer  and  swelled  out  his  sides 
until  the  last  wrinkle  was  effaced.  The 
wand  was  now  carefully  laid  aside  and 
Uncle  Lisha's  hand  stealthily  took  its  place 
without  the  change  being  noticed  by  the 
entranced  frog.  The  thumb  tickled  one 
side,  the  forefinger  the  other,  for  a  moment, 
and  both  were  firmly  but  gently  closed  and 
the  astonished  victun  was  lifted  sprawling 
and  struggling  from  his  seat,  cla^ving  at  the 
imprisoning  hand  and  at  last  bellowing  out- 
right, which  he  continued  to  do  when  he  was 


100  SAM'S   BOY 

set  down  at  some  distance  from  the  brook 
bank,  and  lie  kept  up  the  outcry  wbile  he 
leaped  madly  toward  the  sheltering  depths 
and  disappeared  beneath  the  surface  with  a 
resounding  splash.  Sammy  rolled  in  the 
grass  in  such  a  paroxysm  of  laughter  that 
he  came  near  following  the  frog,  and  when 
he  had  recovered  was  quite  ready  to  admit 
that  this  was  far  greater  fun  than  shooting 
chipmunks  and  frogs. 

As  they  went  home  he  got  a  shot  at  a  red 
squirrel  at  short  range,  and  as  much  by  good 
luck  as  by  skill  knocked  the  bloodthirsty 
little  rascal  off  the  limb  along  which  he  was 
stealing  to  a  nestful  of  unfledged  vireos. 
On  the  same  day  a  rat  was  allured  from  the 
subterranean  depths  of  the  cellar  by  a  sprin- 
kle of  meal  and  his  life  ended  by  a  well- 
aimed  arrow.  Life  began  to  assmne  a 
brighter  aspect  to  Sammy's  view. 

One  summer  day  Sammy  aspired  to  the 
glory  of  killing  a  woodchuck,  and  it  occurred 
to  him  that  Drive  might  be  a  help  to  him, 
though  just  how  he  had  no  very  definite  idea. 
His  father  always  took  Drive  when  he  went 
hunting  foxes  and  raccoons,  therefore  why 


DEPARTURE   OF   AN   OLD   FRIEND     101 

should  he  not  be  useful  in  wooclchuck  hunt- 
ing? So,  equipped  with  his  bow  and  two 
arrows,  he  went  to  the  old  hoimd  where  he 
lay  basking  in  the  sun. 

"  Come,  Drive,"  he  called  cheerily  ;  "  le'  's 
go  an'  kill  a  woo'chuck  !  " 

The  old  dog  beat  the  ground  languidly  in 
recognition  of  his  young  master's  voice,  but 
made  no  further  movement  until  the  invita- 
tion was  repeated.  Then  he  raised  his  head 
and  regarded  the  child  with  a  look  of  j)uz- 
zled  inquiry  on  his  furrowed  brow. 

"  Yes,  Drive  !  Kill  woo'chuck !  "  Sammy 
cried,  presenting  the  bow  for  olfactory  in- 
spection, but  Drive  failed  to  recognize  it  as 
a  sporting  weapon,  and  snapping  at  an  in- 
trusive fl}^  stretched  himself  at  length  again 
with  a  restful  sigh.  "  Oh,  come,  you  ol' 
dog  !  Don't  be  so  lazy,"  said  Sammy,  and 
coaxed  and  patted  until  the  hound  arose 
stiffly  and  followed  a  little  way,  slowly  wag- 
ging his  tail,  and  the  boy  ran  on,  feeling 
himself  now  indeed  a  hunter  with  a  hound 
a£  heel. 

Presently  looking  back  he  saw  the  old 
dog  sitting  down,  only  following  with   his 


102  SAM'S  BOY 

eyes,  and  then  arising  turned  stiffly  and 
awkwardly,  uttered  an  impatient  whine,  and 
hobbled  to  the  lilac  tree,  where  after  briefly 
going  through  the  usual  form  of  nest-making, 
he  lay  down.  Sammy  felt  himself  griev- 
ously slighted,  and  vented  his  vexation  in 
some  disparaging  remarks  as  he  went  on 
alone  to  his  hunting  ground. 

There  sure  enough  was  a  woodchuck,  sit- 
ting bolt  upright  on  liis  earthen  thi'eshold, 
but  not  all  the  young  hunter's  care  and  cau- 
tion availed  to  bring  him  \\dthin  bowshot 
of  the  wary  quarry,  that  seemed  to  have  an 
eye  on  every  side,  for  when  Sammy  stealth- 
ily stalked  him  from  behind  almost  within 
rano'e,  down  went  the  brown  form  as  if 
swallowed  by  the  earth,  and  out  of  its 
depths  came  a  chuckling  derisive  whistle. 
Drive's  presence  could  have  availed  nothing 
but  to  hasten  the  result,  yet  Sammy's  only 
consolation  for  failure  was  in  attributing  it 
to  the  dog's  perversity,  for  which  he  gave 
him  hard  names  and  bitter  rejiroaches,  that 
he  was  afterward  glad  were  unheard  by  thefr 
object.  He  made  the  round  of  all  the  wood- 
chuck  resorts  known  to  him,  with  no  better 


DEPARTURE   OF  AN   OLD   FRIEND     103 

fortune,  and  then  went  home  in  no  happy 
frame  of  mind.  There  lay  the  old  dog  un- 
der the  lilac,  whose  shade  had  slowly  slid 
away  and  left  him  in  the  f idl  glare  of  the 
sun. 

"  Oh,  Drive,  wa'n't  you  a  mean,  lazy  ol' 
thing  not  to  go  'long  wi'  me,  an'  such  lots 
o'  woo'chucks  !  "  Sammy  called  out  as  he 
came  near.  But  there  was  no  responsive 
beat  of  the  slender  tail,  nor  lifting  of  the 
grizzled  head  in  recognition  of  the  childish 
voice.  "  Wal,  you  be  lazy  if  you  won't 
wiggle  your  tail  I  "  Sammy  said,  wondering 
at  this  strange  unwonted  apathy.  "  Drive  ! 
Drive  !  What  ails  ye  ?  "  Still  there  was 
no  sign.  A  swarm  of  flies  buzzed  unmolested 
about  the  ruffled  brow  and  crept  at  will  over 
the  silken  ear,  always  till  now  so  sensitive. 
The  hooped,  mottled  side  was  rigid ;  there 
was  no  tremor  of  the  great  feet  stirred  in 
some  glorious  chase  of  dreamland. 

The  mysterious  essence  of  life  that  dwells 
in  men  and  dogs,  and  dreams  di*eams,  had 
departed  forever  to  the  happy  hunting 
grounds,  where  perhaps  dreams  come  true. 

Sammy  lifted  one  of  the  long  soft  ears ; 


104  SAM'S  BOY 

it  was  cold  as  stone,  though  the  hot  sun 
shone  full  upon  it.  A  great  awe  and  grief 
came  upon  him,  and  he  ran  in  to  his  mother, 
choking  with  sobs. 

"  Oh,  mammy !  "  he  cried,  burying  his 
face  in  her  lap,  —  "  Drive 's  dead,  an'  —  an' 
I  called  him  names  the  last  thing  I  said  tu 
him !  " 

Huldah  and  Aunt  Jerusha,  and  later 
Uncle  Lisha  and  Timothy  Lovel,  went  out 
to  verify  the  sad  annoimcement,  and  when 
Sam  came  in  from  hoeing,  the  heavy  news 
was  imparted  to  him. 

A  group  of  sincere  mourners  stood  around 
the  grave,  made  restfid  to  look  upon  by  a 
lining  of  ferns,  and  when  Sam  tenderly  as- 
signed to  it  his  faithful  old  friend  and  com- 
panion, he  said,  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice, 
"  It  somehaow  seems  's  'ough  men  lived  tew 
long,  erless  dawgs  did  n't  live  long  enough." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    puppy's    education 

In  spite  of  Sam's  grief  for  the  old  clog-, 
within  the  week  he  brought  home  a  puppy 
with  bhie  mottled  sides,  black  saddle  and 
tail  patches,  a  rat-like  tail,  sprawling,  crooked 
tan  legs,  a  brow  prematurely  furrowed  by 
sorrows  yet  unknown,  and  black  and  tan  ears 
that  bedraggled  an  inch  of  their  tips  in  his 
basin  of  milk.  He  was  the  unfinished  pic- 
ture of  his  aged  predecessor,  whose  honored 
name  was  at  once  bestowed  upon  him,  and 
whose  place  it  was  hoped  he  might  worthily 
fill.  Of  course,  Sammy  and  he  at  once  be- 
came great  cronies  and  constant  companions. 

The  boy  soon  began  the  education  of  the 
puppy,  a  task  which  he  felt  himself  quite 
competent  to  undertake,  not  by  experience, 
but  by  inheritance  from  his  father,  a  success- 
ful fox  hunter  and  wise  instructor  of  hounds. 
He   did   not    ask   his    father's    advice    nor 


106  SAM'S  BOY 

acquaint  him  with  liis  plans,  perhaps  think- 
ing to  surprise  him  with  a  well-trained  young 
hound,  or  perhaps  fearing  that  his  ideas  and 
his  father's  might  not  quite  agree.  He 
chose,  rather,  his  little  sister  for  his  confi- 
dante and  assistant,  she  having  arrived  at  an 
age  to  make  her  his  companion  and  a  sharer 
in  most  of  his  pastimes. 

One  sunny  and  dewy  morning  while  he 
was  partaking  of  make-believe  tea  and  bread 
and  butter  with  her  out  of  acorn  cups  and 
crockery  shard  plates  in  her  playhouse  by 
the  leach  tub,  the  puppy  suddenly  made  him- 
self an  unwelcome  member  of  the  company. 
As  he  sprawled  upon  his  young  master  to 
bestow  a  caress,  he  cleared  the  barrel  of  all 
its  outsetting  of  dishes,  and  the  Barmecide 
feast  they  held,  with  one  sweep  of  his  long, 
slender  tail.  Then  being  repelled  by  a  vig- 
orous cuff,  he  attempted  to  bestow  a  similar 
token  of  affection  on  the  chubby  sister, 
which  overturned  her  and  the  block  upon 
which  she  sat,  and  smothering  her  tearful 
outcry  in  a  shower  of  dog  kisses,  seized  her 
beloved  rag  doll,  dragged  it  from  her  arms, 
and  was  just  making  off  with  it  when  his 


THE   PUPPY'S   EDUCATION  107 

flight  was  stopped  by  Sammy's  catcliing  liim 
by  the  tail.  As  he  twisted  and  turned  to 
repel  this  rear  attack,  he  was  caught  more 
securely  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  the 
doll  was  di'opped  and  quicldy  restored  to  the 
little  mother. 

"  Lay  daown  !  "  Sammy  commanded,  pull- 
ing the  puppy's  legs  from  under  him,  one 
by  one,  while  he  pressed  him  to  the  ground 
and  sitting  astride  his  back  held  him  in  that 
position  in  spite  of  his  struggles. 

"  Lay  daown,  sir  ! "  Sammy  repeated,  and 
triumphantly  called  to  his  sister,  "  See  haow 
quick  he  I'arns !  " 

"  Mean  ol'  fing,"  she  sobbed,  with  angry 
glances  through  her  tears.  "  Me  hate 
him." 

"  That  ain't  nothin' ;  what  he  wants  is  tu 
git  tu  huntin'.  Say,  Sis,  you  go  an'  git 
your  kitty  an'  we  '11  I'arn  him  tu  foller  her 
track." 

"  I  'fraid  he  '11  eat  kitty  same  's  he  eat 
dolly,"  the  little  sister  protested. 

"  Pooh  !  "  Sannny  scoffed,  "  he  can't  ketch 
her.  She  '11  climb  uj)  a  tree  'fore  he  c'n 
git  her ! " 


108  SAM'S   BOY 

Being  at  last  persuaded  that  no  harm 
coidd  come  to  her  pet,  she  went  in  and  pre- 
sently reappeared  with  a  half-grown  kitten 
hanging  over  her  arm  in  hmp,  quiescent  dis- 
comfort, the  mother  cat  following  close  at 
her  heels  in  some  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of 
her  offspring.  The  cat  stopjied  on  the  door- 
step, beguiled  by  its  sunny  warmth,  wherein 
she  stretched  herself,  and  through  half- 
closed  lids  lazily  watched  her  kitten's  being 
borne  away,  with  Sammy  in  advance,  drag- 
ging the  reluctant  puppy  by  one  ear,  out 
among  the  straggling,  scraggy  apple  trees. 
The  boy  halted  at  the  wall  on  the  further 
side,  and,  holding  the  young  hound  between 
his  knees,  issued  his  orders. 

"There,  Sis,  you  put  her  daown  there, 
an'  let  her  foller  j^ou  hum.  Mog  along 
kinder  easy,  an'  don't  go  tew  straight." 

The  kitten  set  down  in  the  wet  grass,  put 
forth  one  tentative  paw,  withdrew  it  and 
shook  the  dew  from  it,  put  forth  the  other 
fore  paw  and  withdrew  it  with  a  like  jsrotest 
against  the  unpleasant  moisture,  and  then 
followed  its  little  mistress  in  a  series  of  trots 
and  gallops,  stopping  now  and  then  to  mew 


THE   PUPPY'S  EDUCATION  109 

a  complaint,  but  for  tlie  most  part  keeping 
very  close  to  the  shoi't,  brown  flannel  skirt 
of  its  young  mistress. 

"  It 's  too  bad  wet  poo'  kitty's  foots  !  I 
wanter  carry  poo'  kitty  !  "  she  cried,  stooping 
to  take  the  kitten  in  her  arms. 

"Don't  ye  !  Don't  ye  !  "  Sammy  shouted. 
"  You  wanter  I'aru  her  to  run  away  from 
dawgs,  or  some  on  'em  '11  be  a-killin'  on  her 
fust  you  Imow !  Hunt  'em.  Drive,  hunt 
'em,  good  dawg  !  "  and  he  laid  his  pupil 
on  to  the  fresh  trail. 

The  dos:  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it  all 
at  first,  then  as  his  nostrils  caught  the  reek- 
ing scent,  he  snuffed  it  eagerly,  his  slender 
tail  threshing  his  ribs  while  he  whimpered 
in  ecstasy  of  this  new-found  delight,  till  at 
last  he  went  off  on  the  track,  giving  tongue 
bi'okenly,  yet  ahnost  melodiously.  Sis  sped 
away  at  the  best  pace  her  short  legs  could 
command,  the  kitten  now  close  on  her  heels, 
now  running  before  her.  When  the  last 
apple  tree  was  passed,  she  stumbled  and  fell 
sprawling  over  her  pet.  The  pursuers  were 
hard  upon  them,  for  though  the  pnppy  in 
his  eagerness  often  overran  the  trail,  he  was 


110  SAM'S  BOY 

quickly  laid  on  to  it  by  his  young  master, 
and  so  the  kitten  had  scarcely  scrambled 
out  into  light  and  freedom  when  the  puppy 
was  upon  it.  It  uttered  a  peculiar  squall, 
whereupon  its  mother  came  rushing  to  its 
rescue  with  glaring  eyes  and  distended  tail, 
arriving  at  the  same  moment  with  an  old 
Tom  summoned  from  some  near  retreat  by 
the  cry  of  tlistress.  Both  alighting  at  once 
upon  the  puppy,  fell  to  clapper-clawing  him 
savagely.  A  piteous  outcry  burst  from  the 
frightened  hound ;  the  cats  yowled,  spit, 
and  growled  ;  Sammy  shouted,  "  Scat !  Git 
aout !  Come  ere  !  "  all  in  the  same  breath ; 
his  sister  screamed  in  an  agony  of  alarm. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  Uncle  Lisha's 
lapstone  tumbling  to  the  floor,  followed  by 
his  voice  roaring,  "  Good  airth  an'  seas ! 
is  it  Injuns,  or  01'  Scratch  bruk  loose  ? " 
as  he  waddled  out  adjusting  his  spectacles 
and  shading  his  eyes  from  the  sun.  Aunt 
Jerusha,  Huldah,  Timothy  Lovel,  and  Sam 
came  swarming  out  of  the  door. 

In  their  rear  could  be  heard  a  muffled 
wail  from  Mrs.  Purington.  "  Oh,  is  that 
mis'able  haoun'  pup  eatin'  up  all  the  cats, 


THE   PUPPY'S  EDUCATION  111 

or  what  is  't  ?  Can't  nob'dy  tell  me,  or  git 
me  my  smellin'  salts,  or  du  suthin'  tii  relieve 
my  feelin's  ?  Nobody  knows  wliat  tliey  be 
'at  hain't  hed  'em !  " 

"  What 's  all  the  haow-de-lo  'baout,  Sam- 
my ?  "  Sam  asked  when  the  wriggling  heap 
of  children,  eats,  and  dog  had  separated 
into  its  several  constituent  parts,  and  the 
medley  of  noises  had  subsided  to  the  sup- 
pressed sobbing  of  the  little  girl,  the  cooing 
endearments  of  her  mother  and  Aunt  Jeru- 
sha,  and  the  whimpering  of  the  trembling 
puppy. 

The  boy  told  the  story  as  well  as  he  could 
in  his  present  shame  and  confusion,  truth- 
fully and  without  excuse,  except  his  desire 
to  promote  yomig  Drive's  education. 

"  I  gTiess  I  woidd  n't  try  tu  break  him  on 
aour  cats  no  more,"  his  father  said,  after 
listening  patiently  ;  "  if  he  should  get  a  few 
more  sech  cat-clawin's  he  'd  cal'late  the' 
wa'n't  nothin'  better  tu  find  tu  the  end  o' 
no  sort  o'  track." 

"The'  won't  nob'dy  tell  me  nothin'," 
Mrs.  Purington  moaned  between  deep  inha- 
lations of  hartshorn,  "but  I  blieve  that  'ere 


112  SAM'S  BOY 

boy  hes  be'n  pooty  nigh,  —  snooph,  —  fur 's 
I  know,  aout  an'  aout  Idllecl  —  snoopli-ah 
—  his  httle  sister  !  'T  would  be  all  right 
if  he  hed,  I  s'pose,  'cause  he  's  Sa-ammy,  an' 
she  hain't  nothin'  but  a  gal,  an'  no  name  tu 
her  back  only  Sis  —  snooph-ah  !  I  should 
think  you  would  scratch  'raount  an'  dig  up 
one  o'  some  sort  afore  that  'ere  boy  does 
kill  her  an'  not  a  thing  tu  put  on  her  tomb- 
stun.  If  her  gran'ma's  name  hain't  good 
enough  for  a  Lovel,  —  which  the  Bordens 
was  'spectable  folks  if  they  did  n't  go  huntin', 
an'  no  more  did  the  Pur'n'tons,  —  mebby  her 
gre't-gran'ma  Borden's  would,  —  Polly  Ann. 
But  no,  that  coidd  n't  be  'spected.  Will 
anybody  tell  me  if  he  hes  killed  her?  You 
might  know  he  would,  —  fetched  up  tu  go 
huntin',  not  vaUyin'  life  one  atom."  She 
caught  sight  of  a  cricket  crawling  on  the 
floor  and  promptly  crushed  it  with  her  foot. 
"  Why  the'  hain't  nob'dy  killed,  mother," 
Iluldah  assured  her,  and  Mrs.  Purington 
consoled  herself  with  a  lonsfer  sniff  of  harts- 
horn.  "  I  do'  know  but  what  Polly  is  a 
good  name,  an'  it  '11  please  aour  Sis.  It 's 
queer  we  never  thought  on't.     An'  Polly  's 


THE  PUPPY'S  EDUCATION  113 

short  for  Mary  tew,  which  is  good  enough 
name  for  anybody.  But  I  guess  we  '11  leave 
off  the  Ann." 

Mrs.  Purington  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
filling  its  place  with  a  long  inhalation  of 
ammonia,  tried  to  coQtent  herself  with  this 
partial  honor  paid  the  maternal  Borden. 


CHAPTER  XI 

PEACH   DAUNT 

Polly  was  in  the  habit  of  entertaining 
her  brother  with  relations  of  her  doll's  ad- 
ventures, none  of  which  he  ever  witnessed ; 
and  of  the  richness  and  variety  of  that  yomig 
lady's  wardrobe,  which  were  invisible  but  to 
the  eye  of  faith,  for  to  other  vision  she  never 
wore  but  one  dress,  and  that  soiled  and 
much  the  worse  for  wear.  In  emulation, 
Sammy  began  to  give  rein  to  liis  imagination, 
and  told  marvelous  tales  of  a  boy  friend  of 
whom  Polly  was  never  able  to  get  sight. 

"  I  seen  Peach  Daunt  to-day,"  he  would 
begin,  when  Polly,  after  aj)ologizing  for 
Malviny's  not  wearing  her  "  new  pink  caliker 
and  Leghorn  bunnit,"  doubled  her  in  the 
middle  and  set  her  against  the  orchard 
wall. 

"  Peach  Daunt !  What  a  funny  name," 
said  Polly. 


PEACH   DAUNT  115 

"  Well,  I  can't  lielp  it.  It 's  the  name 
they  give  him.  Oh,  you  'd  orter  see  the 
clo'es  he  's  got !  He  's  got  a  blue  cwut  wi' 
yaller  buttons  —  gold,  I  guess,  they  be  "  — 

"  Malviny  's  got  a  string  o'  gold  beads  'at 
goes  twiete  'raound,"  Polly  interrupted. 

"  Sho  !  I  '11  bet  they  hain't  nothin'  only 
yaller  thorn  apples !  "  Sammy  scoffed, 
"reach  Daunt' s  buttons  is  gold." 

"  Malviny  got  threw  aouten  a  waggin  an' 
broke  her  neck,  an'  has  tu  wear  'em  tu  cover 
up  where  the  darkter  mended  it." 

"  Sho  !  Peach  Daunt  don't  want  no  ol' 
beads !  He  could  have  a  peck  on  'em  if  he 
did.  But  you  'd  orter  see  the  candy !  Bidl's 
eyes,  an'  sticks,  an'  hearts,  an'  lozengers, 
more  'n  you  could  shake  a  stick  at !  " 

"  Mr.  Clapham  gives  me  an'  Malviny 
candy,"  said  Polly,  elevating  her  chubby 
nose. 

"  Clapham !  "  said  Sammy  scornfully. 
"  Peach  Daunt's  father  keeps  store  to  Ver- 
gennes,  bigger  'n  forty  o'  Clapham's  ol'  stores ; 
an'  he  sells  hogsits  f idl  of  candy  every  day ! 
He  'd  sooner  give  away  a  han'fid  'an  sell 
it." 


116  SAM'S   BOY 

"My,  I  wish  't  I  could  go  there!  "  Polly 
sighed,  with  watering  mouth.  "  Don't 
Peach  Daunt  never  give  you  none  ?  " 

"  Lots,"  Sammy  answered  thoughtlessly. 

"  Why  don't  you  never  fetch  me  none  ?  " 
she  asked  reproachfully ;  and  Sammy,  un- 
able to  explain  such  ungenerous  conduct, 
shifted  to  a  less  feminine  subject. 

"  But  my  sakes,  you  'd  orter  see  his 
gun !  " 

"  Not  a  real  bang-gun  he  hain't  got  ? " 
Polly  asked  incredulously. 

"  Yes,  sir,  ju'  like  daddy's,  only  not  so 
big ;  just  right  for  a  boy  tu  handle,  an'  cap- 
lock,  an'  all  curlequed  off  wi'  brass  trim- 
min's,  an'  you  can  shoot  at  anything  with 
it." 

"  Oh,  Sammy  !  Don't  you  wish  you  had 
one  ?  " 

"  M-m-m-m !  "  he  groaned  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  such  a  wild  dream.  "  You  'd  orter 
see  all  the  squirrels  he  gits,  pidjins,  an'  pa'- 
tridges.     Oh,  piles  on  'em  !  " 

"  'F  I  'd  orter,  why  don't  I ;  why  don't  I 
see  him  ?  "  Polly  asked. 

"  He  don't  never  come  no  furder  'n  Stunny 


PEACH   DAUNT  117 

Brook  ;  he  won't,"  said  her  brother  awk- 
wardly, parrying  this  reasonable  question. 

"  Why,  I  go  there  fishin'  long  wi'  you 
lots  o'  times.  What  is  the  reason  I  can't 
when  he  comes  ?  " 

"  'Cause  there  's  a  lynk  hantin'  'raound 
there,  an'  he  'd  scare  you  awful,"  Sammy 
said,  forced  to  evolve  a  new  creature  from 
his  imagination  to  guard  his  unreal  hero. 

"  A  lynk  ?  What  sort  o'  critter  be  them  ?  " 
Polly  asked. 

"Oh,  gre't  big  sorter  cats,  some  like  a 
painter,  an'  some  not,"  he  answered,  in  doubt 
to  describe  a  beast  of  which  he  had  only  a 
vague  idea.  "  Oh,  they  're  awful  ugly,  I 
tell  ye ! " 

"  Did  you  an'  him  see  the  lynk  ?  " 

"  Guess  we  did  ;  lots  o'  times,  an'  heard 
him  holler.     Oh,  awfid  I  "  said  Sammy. 

"  I  sh'd  thought  you  'd  shot  him,"  said 
PoUy. 

"  Peach  Daunt  wa'n't  huntin'  lynks,  an' 
more  'n  that,  'f  you  don't  kill  'em  fust  lick, 
they  '11  kill  you.  I  guess  Peach  Daunt 
da'sn't." 

"  I  sh'd  think  you  'd  git  daddy  tu  shoot 


118  SAM'S   BOY 

liim,"  Polly  said.  "  He  hain't  feared  o' 
notliin',  an'  he  can  kill  anything." 

"  My  sakes,  no !  "  Sammy  gasped,  and 
adi'oitly  shifting  from  dangerous  ground, 
again  began  enlarging  upon  the  wonderful 
possessions  of  his  mythical  friend,  until 
Polly  was  quite  consumed  with  envy  of  her 
brother's  gTand  acquaintance,  and  walked 
slowly  home,  pouting  and  speecliless. 

But  at  dinner  she  suddenly  recovered 
speech,  and  piped  up  shrilly  above  the  clat- 
ter of  crockery  and  knives  and  forks,  to 
Sammy's  consternation,  "  Oh,  say,  daddy, 
Sammy  he  see  a  wink  down  t'  the  woods,  a 
gre't  awf'l  ugly  wink  !  " 

"  A  what  ?  "  Sam  Lovel  demanded,  star- 
ing at  the  little  girl  over  a  mouthful  of 
potato  poised  midway  on  its  passage  to  his 
lips,  and  Aunt  Jerusha  quit  blowing  her 
saucer  of  tea  to  ask,  — 

"  What  on  airth  is  that  precious  child 
a-talkin'  abaout  ?  " 

Sammy,  turning  hot  and  cold  in  quick 
succession,  groped  with  his  foot  among  the 
others  beneath  the  table  for  Polly's,  but  did 
not  find  it,  and  she  repeated  with  loud  con- 


PEACH   DAUNT  119 

fidence,  "  A  wink,  a  gre't  awf' 1  ugly  wink ! 
Didn't  )'0u,  Sammy?  " 

"I  never  said  I  seen  a  wink,"  lie  declared 
doggedly,  more  indignant  at  being  charged 
with  a  misnomer  than  ashamed  of  the  false- 
hood.    "  I  said  a  lynk !  " 

"  You  seen  a  lynk,  Sammy  ? "  asked  his 
father  with  open  incredulity.  "  Oh,  sho, 
naow  I  " 

"  I  don't  care,  I  did  I  "  Sammy  stoutly 
protested.  He  determined  to  stand  by  this 
creation  of  fancy  at  all  hazards,  but  trem- 
bled to  think  what  he  should  do  if  he  were 
called  on  to  defend  his  more  audacious  in- 
vention of  Peach  Daunt.  The  sight  of  a 
wild  beast  in  the  verge  of  the  great  forest 
was  not  a  stark  improbability,  but  clandes- 
tine meetings  there  with  a  fabulous  boy  was 
too  absurd  a  story  to  impose  upon  the  cre- 
dxdity  of  his  elders. 

"  Where  d'  you  see  him,  —  on  the  groimd 
or  up  a  tree  ?  "  his  father  asked. 

"  Runnin'  'long  the  graound  an'  climbin' 
up  a  tree,"  Sammy  answered,  taking  two 
chances  of  being  right. 

"  Wal,  naow,  that  seems  kinder  reason- 


120  SAMS  BOY 

able,  but  I  guess  it  was  a  coon,"  said  Sam, 
interested.  "  What  for  a  lookin'  crittur 
was't?" 

"  Sort  o'  like  a  cat,"  Sammy  answered 
promptly,  sure  in  tliis  particular. 

"  Mebby  't  was  one  o'  aour  cats,"  his 
father  suggested.  "  There 's  'nough  on  'em, 
—  the  ol'  maltee  cat,  an'  the  ol'  brindle  Tom, 
an'  young  Tom,  an'  Sis's  yaller  kitten." 

"  'T  was  bigger  'n  all  on  'em,"  said 
Sammy,  with  no  idea  of  having  his  beast  be- 
littled. 

"  What  kind  o'  tail  did  he  hev,  an'  what 
color  was  he  ?  "   Sam  asked. 

"  Oh,  't  wa'n't  turrible  long  nor  turrible 
short,  an'  he  was  kinder  black  an'  kinder 
yaller,"  said  Sammy,  finding  himself  driven 
to  veiy  uncertain  ground,  and  feeling  for  a 
middle  course  off  of  it. 

"  Ah-h-h !  "  Sammy's  father  said,  in  a 
tone  half  derisive,  haK  reproachfid,  "you 
be'n  a-yarnin' !  The'  hain't  no  sech  lookin' 
wild  crittur.  A  lynk  's  gray,  an'  got  a  short 
tail." 

Sammy  slunk  out  of  doors,  choking  with 
mortification. 


PEACH   DAUNT  121 

"  Tattle-tale  !  "  lie  blurted  out  angrily  to 
Polly,  as  she  followed  liis  retreat.  "  I  won't 
never  tell  you  nothin'  again  as  long  's  I  live 
an'  breathe." 

"  What  be  we  goin'  tu  du  tu  stop  him 
tellin'  sech  whoppers  ?  "  Huldah  asked. 

"  Oh,  boys  has  got  tu.  'T  ain't  no  more  'n 
the  stories  in  books,  an'  we  buy  them." 

Polly  judiciously  held  her  peace  concern- 
ing Peach  Daunt. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    LYNX 

When  the  Indian  arrows  were  hopelessly 
lost  and  their  place  poorly  supplied  by 
clumsy  substitutes,  fashioned  by  Uncle  Lisha, 
Timothy  Lovel,  and  Sam,  Sammy  began  to 
desire  a  deadlier  weapon  than  the  bow,  and 
cast  longing  eyes  upon  his  father's  guns. 
The  ponderous  rifle,  popularly  known  as  the 
Ore  Bed,  for  its  weight  of  metal,  was  quite 
beyond  his  hope  of  aiming  for  many  a  year 
to  come,  but  when  he  was  permitted  to 
handle  the  longer,  but  lighter,  smooth-bore, 
he  was  rejoiced  to  find  he  coidd  raise  it  for 
an  instant  to  an  off-hand  aim,  and  thereupon 
begged  earnestly  to  be  allowed  to  go  hunting 
with  it.  This  was  of  course  refused  for 
the  present,  but  with  a  half  promise  that  he 
might  do  so  "  one  o'  these  days."  This 
was  much  pondered,  and  not  forgotten  by 
the  boy. 


THE   LYNX  123 

In  due  course  of  time  it  happened  one 
day  that  all  the  grown-up  inmates  of  the 
Lovel  homestead  were  abroad  except  Uncle 
Lisha,  who  was  left  in  charge  of  the  house 
and  the  two  children.  For  the  most  part  he 
sat  on  his  bench,  working  at  a  pair  of  new 
shoes,  answering  as  well  as  he  could  the 
children's  endless  questions,  and  doing  his 
best  to  satisfy  their  insatiable  appetite  for 
stories  of  old  times.  Now  and  then  he 
would  get  upon  his  feet,  and  after  brushing 
the  scraps  and  shreds  from  his  apron  make 
an  inspection  of  the  kitclien,  look  out  the 
door,  up  and  down  the  road,  and  comment 
on  the  unusually  infrequent  "i3ass,"  note 
hour  and  minutes  marked  by  the  hands  of 
the  tall  clock,  and  then  go  back  to  the  shop, 
glad  to  retire  from  the  oppressive,  unwonted 
quiet  of  the  room,  made  the  more  noticeable 
by  the  dehberate,  muffled  tick  of  the  clock, 
and  the  drowsy  buzzing  of  flies  on  the  win- 
dows. Now  and  then,  when  the  children 
could  not  extract  another  tale  from  "their 
story-teUer,  they  ran  out  to  play  in  the  yard, 
and  Polly's  doll  was  captured  by  Indians 
over  and  over  again,  and  rescued  after  sea- 


124  SAM'S  BOY 

sons  of  savage  captivity ;  was  treed  by  hordes 
of  wolves,  followed  by  panthers,  always 
to  be  saved  just  in  the  nick  of  time  by  the 
mighty  hunter  and  Indian  fighter,  Sammy. 
When  invention  of  adventures  was  exliausted, 
they  went  into  the  shop,  with  sharpened 
aj)petites  for  stories,  but  ashamed  to  ask  for 
more.  Uncle  Lisha,  fully  expecting  a  fresh 
demand,  cudgeled  memory  and  wits  for  a 
way  to  meet  it  as  he  stared  out  abstractedly 
over  the  bright  September  landscape.  After- 
math and  woodland  were  as  green  as  woods 
and  meadows  of  June,  yet  of  a  riper  tint, 
and  a  changed  depth  and  slant  of  shadows. 

"  Wal,  this  'ere 's  a  neat  time  for  youn- 
kets  tu  play  aou'door,  hain't  it,  naow  ?  "  he 
said,  uttering  the  happy  thought  suggested 
by  the  beauty  of  the  day. 

"  Ya-as,"  Sammy  admitted. 

"  Yes,  sir,  this  'ere 's  one  o'  the  days," 
Uncle  Lisha  said,  with  greater  emphasis. 

"  Wha'  'd  you  say,  Uncle  Lisher  ?  "  the 
boy  asked,  pricking  his  ears ;  "  one  o'  these 
days  'd  you  say  it  was  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  jest  one  o'  these  'ere  days  I  'd 
be  a-playin'  aou'door  if  I  was  a  younket,  or 


THE   LYNX  125 

aout  yonder  in  the  woods  a-liiintin'  pa'tridge, 
if  I  was  twenty  year  younger  'n  I  be." 

By  some  sign  common  to  tlie  freemasonry 
of  childhood,  Sammy  signaled  Polly  out  of 
doors  and  out  of  hearing  of  Uncle  Lisha, 
and  whispered  loudly,  "  Say !  'd  you  hear 
him  say  that  it 's  one  o'  these  days  ?  " 

Polly  nodded,  though  not  comprehending 
the  drift  of  it  all. 

"  An'  you  know  daddy  tol'  me  I  might  go 
a-huntin'  wV  his  real,  shootin',  growd-up 
folks'  gun  '  one  o'  these  days.'  Naow,  le'  's 
me  an'  you  git  it  an'  go  ;  'cause  you  see,  this 
day 's  one  of  'em,  an'  he  won't  care !  " 

"  You  think  Unc'  Lisher  let  us  ?  "  Polly 
asked,  a  little  scared  by  the  audacious  pro- 
posal. 

"  We  hain't  his  children,  an'  he  hain't  got 
no  business  not  to  let  us,  'long  as  daddy  said 
we  might  when  '  one  o'  these  days '  come. 
We  won't  ask.     Come  !  " 

The  argument  was  convincing,  and  with- 
out further  demur  she  followed  his  cautious 
footsteps  to  the  kitchen  door,  which  was 
opened  and  entered,  a  wooden-bottomed 
chair  moved  to  position  under  the  gim  hooks 


126  SAM'S  BOY 

and  mounted,  the  gun,  powder  horn,  and 
shot  bag  taken  from  them,  and  out  of  doors, 
and  all  accomplished  so  noiselessly  under 
favor  of  the  fortune  that  no  less  frequently 
attends  naughty  children  than  it  does  their 
naughty  elders,  that  Uncle  Lisha's  attention 
was  not  attracted. 

Crouching  as  they  ran,  they  got  around 
the  house  until  the  rear  of  the  woodshed 
was  reached,  and  they  were  hidden  from 
their  guardian  in  the  shop.  Then  they 
stopped  a  moment  to  regain  the  breath  that 
had  almost  gone  out  of  them  in  gasps  of 
fear  and  painful  repression.  Sammy  crawled 
throusfh  a  hole  in  the  back  of  the  shed  and 
secured  a  wasp  nest  for  wadding,  and  then 
the  pair  laid  a  straight  course  for  the  woods, 
keeping  in  range  of  the  barn.  During  the 
purloining  of  the  gun  the  young  hound, 
grown  almost  to  his  full  height,  but  awk- 
ward and  unbiddable  in  puppyhood,  was  har- 
rying a  woodchuck  in  the  pasture  wall,  to 
the  great  relief  of  Sammy,  who  was  aware 
of  the  risk  of  betrayal  by  Drive's  unre- 
strainable  demonstrations.  But,  now  they 
were  safely  out  of  Uncle  Lisha's  sight,  the 


THE   LYNX  127 

dog's  company  would  be  welcome  enough. 
When  he  desisted  a  moment  from  digging 
and  discovered  his  young  comrades  crossing 
the  field,  the  boy  carrying  the  gun  on  his 
shoulder  in  such  pride  that  he  felt  himself 
growing  an  inch  a  minute,  he  galloped  after 
them  with  one  reluctant  look  backward  at 
the  stronghold  of  the  woodchuck.  Drive 
had  learned  from  the  wise  teacliing  of  liis 
master  that  the  gain  brought  the  reward  of 
hunting,  having  already  killed  for  him  sev- 
eral squirrels,  a  treed  woodchuck,  and  a  run- 
ning hare,  and  now  expressed  his  joy  at 
going  hunting  with  the  children,  careering 
madly  about  them  and  far  before  them,  ut- 
tering a  medley  of  yelps  and  deeiJ-mouthed 
challenges,  then  tearing  back  at  top  speed 
and  leaping  up  at  the  gun,  to  the  unpeding 
of  Sammy's  progress  and  imminent  risk  of 
knocking  him  over,  and  now,  by  many  un- 
mistakable signs,  asking  for  help  to  dislodge 
the  woodchuck  from  its  stronghold. 

"  No,  Drive,  can't,"  Sammy  declared  re- 
solutely. "  Daddy  says  we  must  n't  pull 
down  no  wall  for  woo'chucks.  Come  on 
int'  the  woods  an'  git  a  pa'tridge  or  suthin'." 


128  SAM'S  BOY 

Sammy  did  not  know  that  a  hound  was  not 
exactly  suited  to  partridge  hunting,  and 
Drive  was  ready  for  the  pursuit  of  anything 
by  scent  except  cats,  of  which  he  had  un- 
pleasant recollection. 

They  had  scarcely  entered  the  woods  be- 
fore he  scented  game  and  began  working  up 
the  trail,  with  Sammy  following  so  close  that 
his  shins  were  rapped  by  the  dog's  slender 
tail  at  every  step,  and  Polly,  awed  by  the 
dark,  mysterious  interior  that  was  opening 
before  her,  stuck  as  closely  to  her  brother's 
heels. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  roar  of  half  a  dozen 
pairs  of  wings  as  Drive  ran  into  the  midst 
of  a  company  of  grouse  dusting  in  the  pow- 
dered mould  of  a  decayed  tree  trunk.  The 
dog  stared  after  them  until  the  last  one  dis- 
appeared, and  then  looked  inquiringly  at  his 
young  master,  as  if  to  ask,  "  Did  n't  I  do 
that  in  good  style  ?  "  while  Sammy  stared 
as  intently  at  the  blurred  forms  vanishing 
among  boughs  and  shadows,  hoping  that  one 
might  alight  witlnn  sight  and  range.  Then 
the  dog  trotted  forward  in  quest  of  new 
achievements  until   out  of   sight,  but   still 


THE   LYNX  129 

making  his  wliei^eabouts  known  as  he  threshed 
brush  and  trunks  with  his  busy  tail  and 
snaj^ped  dry  twigs  underfoot.  ^  Presently 
the  sound  of  the  tail  beats  ceased,  and  then 
the  dog  came  skulking  back  with  hackles 
bristling  and  tail  lowered. 

"  Why,  dawg !  "  Sammy  said  to  him, 
searching  the  dark  shade  beyond  for  the 
cause  ,of  alarm,  "  you  look  as  if  ol'  Maltee 
an'  her  hid  fam'ly  was  arter  ye.  What 
is  't  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Bub  !  see  !  see  !  "  the  little  sister 
said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  clutching  at  his 
sleeve  and  pointing  eagerly  upward  at  some- 
thing crouching  on  a  great  branch  of  a  tree 
just  beyond  the  partridges'  dusting  place. 

Following  the  direction  of  her  finger, 
Sammy  saw  a  pair  of  big,  round,  yellow 
eyes  glaring  at  him  out  of  a  gray  chuckle- 
head,  the  pricked  ears  tipped  with  tufts  of 
black  hair,  all  of  which,  with  a  ruff  flaring 
out  behind  the  head,  made  such  a  fierce- 
looking  visage  that  the  boy  wished  himself 
and  his  companions  well  out  of  the  woods,  and 
would  have  quickly  betaken  hijnseht  thence 
if  the  eyes  of  Polly  had  not  been  upon  him. 


130  SAM'S  BOY 

It  would  never  do  to  show  the  white  feather 
in  her  presence,  so  he  sidled  up  to  the  near- 
est tree,  with  Polly  sticking  close  to  his  side 
and  Drive  cowering  behind,  in  which  position 
only  he  dared  utter  a  growl  at  the  biggest 
cat  he  had  ever  seen  crouched  along  the 
bough,  eyeing  the  trio  closely,  yet  with  inso- 
lent indifference.  It  was  a  formidable-look- 
ing beast,  and  Sammy  was  glad  to  remember 
that  the  gun  was  still  loaded  with  the  charge 
of  BB  shot  that  he  had  seen  his  father  pour 
into  the  barrel.  He  cocked  the  gun  and 
raised  it  to  a  rest  against  the  great  tree  and 
got  a  steady  aim  right  between  the  yellow 
eyes. 

The  beast  seemed  to  recognize  a  menace  in 
this,  for  it  bared  its  sharp,  white  teeth  with 
a  gasping  hiss  and  did  not  take  its  eyes  off 
the  boy,  who  pulled  on  the  trigger  without 
effect  till  he  surmised  the  gun  was  only  half 
cocked,  and  then,  assuring  himself  that  it 
was,  put  a  second  finger  and  all  his  strength 
on  the  trigger.  It  yielded,  and  the  striker, 
a  clumsy  bit  of  iron  screwed  into  the  place 
of  the  discarded  flint,  came  dowTi  with  a 
crack  on  the  caj),  the  woods  were  filled  with 


THE   LYNX  131 

a  far-echoing  roar,  pierced  by  a  terrific 
scream,  and  through  the  slowly  lifting  cloud 
of  smoke  Sanuny  had  a  glimpse  of  a  gray 
body  curving  down  toward  him.  It  struck 
the  earth  heavily,  but  went  three  feet  m  the 
air  with  a  quick  rebound,  repeated  after  each 
fall.  As  the  gi-ound  descended  slightly, 
each  reboiuid  brought  the  beast,  with  all 
four  big,  talon-armed  paws  lashing  out 
blindly,  a  little  nearer  to  the  dazed  group, 
till  Polly's  skirt  was  caught  in  a  sweeping 
stroke  that  cut  it  like  loiives.  Then  Sammy 
came  to  liis  wits,  and,  catching  hold  of  his 
sister,  ran  pellmell  down  the  slope  with  her, 
preceded  by  Drive,  whimpering  and  tucking 
his  tail  to  its  tightest  between  his  legs. 
There  was  no  halt  till  the  brook  was  crossed. 
Then,  as  they  stood  listening  to  the  thresh- 
ing of  the  ground  by  the  wounded  beast  and 
its  growling  and  gasping  growing  fainter, 
till  scarcely  heard  above  the  babble  of 
the  brook  and  their  own  hard  breathing, 
Sammy  began  reloading  his  gun. 

"  What  be  him  ?  "  Polly  asked,  when  she 
found  voice. 

"  Don't  know,"   Sammy  answered,  intent 


132  SAM'S   BOY 

upon  pouring  liaK  his  small  palmful  of  pow- 
der into  the  long  barrel,  slanted  at  a  gentle 
incline  to  get  muzzle  on  a  level  with  his 
shoulder.  "  'T  ain't  no  painter,  nor  one  o' 
Mr.  Antwine's  things  'at  ketches  naughty 
childern,  'cause  't  ain't  got  no  tail  tu  speak 
on." 

"  Will  he  kill  us,  you  s'pose  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  hain't,  anyway,  an'  I  guess  he  won't 
if  I  ever  git  this  ol'  gun  loaded.  I  guess 
he 's  dead  or  gone  off,  for  I  can't  hear  him 
no  more,"  he  continued,  when  the  loading  of 
the  gun  was  accomplished  and  the  cap  on 
the  nij^ple.  "  Come  on  ;  le'  's  we  go  an' 
see." 

Polly  shook  her  head  very  decidedly,  and 
ruefidly  regarded  her  torn  frock. 

"  'Fraid  cat !  "  Sammy  said  scornfully. 
"  Come  on.  Drive.  Come  !  Sic  'em,  s-s-sic 
'em  !  "  But  Drive  was  as  loath  as  Polly. 
"■  Wal,  I  'm  goin',  anyway."  His  courage 
was  not  to  be  put  to  the  test,  for  at  that 
moment  he  and  Polly  were  startled  by  a 
voice  roaring :  — 

"  Good  airth  an'  seas  !  You  little  tor- 
ments !     What  be  you  a-doin'  here  ?  " 


THE   LYNX  133 

Congratulating  himself  on  his  success  in 
escaping  for  a  while  from  story-telling,  Uncle 
Lisha  hammered  and  stitched  in  great  con- 
tentment until  at  last  he  became  aware  that 
an  unusual  and  j^rotracted  interval  of  silence 
was  pervading  the  premises,  and  as  he  held 
it  to  be  a  sure  sign  that  the  cliildren  were 
asleep  or  in  mischief  if  they  were  quiet,  he 
thought  it  time  to  inform  himself  in  which 
condition  they  were  now,  praying  that  it 
might  be  the  former. 

He  went  to  the  shop  door  and  looked 
abroad,  but  they  were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Then  he  looked  into  the  kitchen,  hoping  to 
see  the  pair  lying  asleep  on  the  settee,  but  it 
was  empty  and  silent.  As  he  cast  a  glance 
around  the  room,  he  noted  the  chair  set  out 
of  place  and  the  empty  gunhooks  above 
it,  whereat  he  conjectured  at  once  that  mis- 
chief had  been  brewing,  and  hiirried  out  of 
doors  in  great  anxiety.  The  prodigious  fuss 
he  made  in  moving  his  fat  body  quickly  on 
his  short  legs  frightened  the  staid  old  hens 
from  their  songs  of  contentment  and  lei- 
surely strolling,  and  sent  them  cackling  and 
scampering;     and    his    repeated    stentorian 


134  SAM'S   BOY 

calls,  "  Sam-mee  !  Child'n  !  "  brought  no 
resjionse. 

His  fii'st  thouoiit  was  to  make  at  once  for 
the  nearest  woods,  whither  the  truants  would 
naturally  betake  themselves  ;  but  before  do- 
ing so  he  looked  into  the  cistern,  though  the 
cover  was  in  its  proper  jjlace,  and  then  he 
went  behind  the  woodshed  as  a  likely  resort 
from  observers.  Before  he  got  in  sight  of  it, 
the  roar  of  a  gun  struck  his  ear,  coming 
from  the  woods  in  the  very  direction  he  was 
about  to  take,  and  now  took  it  without  fur- 
ther delay,  at  the  best  pace  he  could  hold. 
The  sun  shone  hot  on  his  bare,  bald  pate, 
and  the  leathern  apron  flapping  against  his 
short  legs  handicapped  hmi,  so  he  untied 
and  shuffled  it  off  as  he  ran.  So,  rejoicing 
to  see  them  apparently  unharmed,  he  came 
within  sight  and  hail  of  the  truants,  who 
might  have  heard  his  loud  panting  before  he 
called,  if  their  ears  had  not  been  so  intently 
turned  elsewhere. 

"  Oh,  Unc'  Lisher  !  We  seen  "  —  Sammy 
cried,  too  full  of  his  wonderful  story  to  real- 
ize guiltiness,  but  the  old  man  cut  him  short 
with  an  unwonted  sharpness. 


THE   LYNX  135 

"  Sammy  Lovel !  you  desarve  a-liidin',  an' 
I  guess  you  '11  git  it,  tew,  when  your  father 
gets  hum,  an'  comes  tu  know  !  " 

"  Don't  care,"  Sammy  resumed,  not  to  be 
denied  the  telling  of  his  story.  "  We  seen 
the  awfullest  thing,  an'  I  shot  him  right  in 
the  face  an'  eyes,  an'  he  come  daown  kerlimi- 
mux,  'most  onto  us,  an'  tore  Sissy's  clo'es, 
an'  we  run,  an'  I  guess  he 's  dead  or  gone,  an' 
Sissy  da'sn't  go,  nor  Drive,  an'  le'  's  we  go 
an'  see.     My  !  if  he  did  n't  hoUer  !  " 

'•  You  be'n  a-teUin'   'baout  seein'  critters 

consid'able,    long    back,    an'    I  reckon  you 

kinder  dreamt  'em  nights,  an'  fixed  'em  up 

daytimes    'til    you    b'lieved    'em,   but    I  'm 

'feard  you  're  making  up  this  'ere,  aouten  a 

hul  side  o'  luther,"  Uncle  Lisha  said   in  a 

tone  so  severe  that  Sammy's  heart  was  near 

breaking.     "  An'  you  hooked  your  daddy's 

gun,  an'  run  away  wi'  Sis,  wi'aout  askin'  !  " 

"  No,    Unc'    Lisher,"   the  boy  protested, 

swallowing  first  at  a  lump  which  would  not 

go    down.     "  Daddy    tol'    me    I    might    go 

huntin'  wi'  his  gun  '  one  o'  these  days,'  an' 

you  said  it  was  '  one  o'  these  days,'  an'  so 

we  ■  went,  an'  we  did  see  a  awful  big  thing 


136  SAM'S   BOY 

up  a  tree,  an'  I  shot  him,  an'  daown  he 
come,  an'  we  run  aout  here.  Did  n't  he,  an' 
did  n't  we.  Sis  ?  " 

Polly  nodded  repeated  emphatic  affirma- 
tives to  his  statement,  and  Uncle  Lisha 
was  so  far  convinced  as  to  ask,  "  Where 
was  't  ?  " 

"  Come  on,  an'  I  '11  show  ye  !  "  cried 
Sammy,  and  led  on  across  the  brook,  when 
he  fell  back  to  Uncle  Lisha's  side  and  pointed 
rather  than  led  the  way. 

"  Better  gi'  me  the  gun,"  said  the  latter, 
taking  the  weapon  and  carrying  it  at  a  ready, 
for  all  his  skepticism. 

A  few  steps  further  brought  them  to  the 
scene  of  the  late  encounter  ;  and  there  in  the 
midst  of  torn  mould  and  scattered  leaves  lay 
a  great  Canada  lynx,  outstretched  as  the 
last  breath  had  left  it,  the  half-open  mouth 
displaying  the  sharp  fangs  and  lolling  tongue, 
one  glazed  yellow  eye  glaring  blankly,  the 
other,  pierced  by  a  shot,  oozing  blood  from 
its  empty  socket.  Even  stark  dead  it  was 
a  wicked-looking  brute,  and  the  sudden, 
imexpected  sight  of  it  made  the  boy  start, 
as  it  did  the  old  man. 


THE   LYNX  137 

"  Good  airth  an'  seas,  it 's  a  lynk !  "  he 
shouted. 

"  A  lynk  ?  "  Sammy  repeated  in  great 
perplexity,  "  Why  —  why  —  he  don't  look 
a  mite  like  them  'at  I  see  behind  the  or- 
chard !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  lynk  it  is,  as  sure  as  guns," 
said  Uncle  Lisha.  "  You  see  he  's  a  raal 
giniwine  one,  an'  yourn  wa'n't,  ezackly. 
Wal,  wal,  wal,  you  be  a  buster.  Bub,  an' 
I  'm  praoud  on  ye,  an'  so  '11  your  daddy  be  ; 
but  you  did  n't  orter  hook  the  gam,  an'  I 
s'pect  you  orter  git  a  lickin'." 

He  lifted  the  animal  by  a  hind  leg,  and 
throwing  it  over  his  shoidder,  led  out  of  the 
woods,  and  then  when  PoUy  had  her  fill  of 
wondering,  fearfid  admiration  over  the  grim 
trophy,  the  party  set  forth  homeward,  Sammy 
bearing  a  part  of  the  burden  by  a  fore  paw. 
Polly  walked  beliind,  now  regarding  the 
dead  beast  with  awed  admiration,  now  cast- 
ing ruefid  eyes  upon  her  torn  skirt,  but  for 
which  she  would  have  at  once  run  home  to 
brave  a  scolding,  for  the  honor  of  being  the 
first  to  tell  the  story  of  the  great  adventure, 
while  Drive  now  and  then  ventured  a  neck- 


138  SAM'S  BOY 

stretching  sniff  at  the  terrible  cat,  and 
sprang  away  in  fresh  accession  of  fear  when- 
ever the  free  fore  paw  swung  toward  him. 

As  the  company  neared  the  house  Aunt 
Jerusha,  Huldah,  and  Sam  came  forth  to 
meet  it.  Finding  the  house  deserted,  they 
wondered  greatly  at  the  cause,  as  they 
scoured  the  premises  for  the  tenants  lately 
left  in  charge,  and  wondered  more  when 
they  discovered  the  strange  procession. 

"  What  in  time  lies  Uncle  Lisher  be'n 
a-shootin'  ? "  Sam  queried,  walking  very 
slowly  and  looking  very  intently  at  the  bur- 
den borne  by  the  old  man  and  the  boy. 

"Looks  ju'  like  a  string  o'  suthin',''  said 
Huldah.  "  Pidjins,  is  't,  or  pa'tridges  ?  Wal, 
the'  's  a  snag  on  'em." 

"  My  sakes  alive,  I  should  say  as  much !  " 
Aunt  Jerusha  declared,  polishing  her  glasses 
with  a  corner  of  her  apron  for  a  clearer  ob- 
servation. "  Wal,  I  might  's  well  go  'long 
back  in,  an'  put  on  my  ev'day  gaownd  an' 
apron,  an'  git  ready  for  pickin'." 

"  I  cal'late  the  pup  got  a  coon  treed,  an' 
Uncle  Lisher  went  an'  shot  him.  By  mighty, 
I  hope  so  ;  it  '11  du  'em  both  a  j)ile  o'  good  !  " 


THE  LYXX  139 

said  Sam,  without  withdrawing  his  intent 
gaze. 

"  An'  Bub,  tew  !  He  feels  as  praoud  as 
if  he  'd  done  it,"  said  Huldah,  glad  for  her 
boy's  giachiess.  "  Jest  see  him  stub  an' 
brace,  will  ye  ?  Oh,  dear,  next  thing  he  '11 
hafter  hev  a  gun !  "  and  she  sighed  gently. 

"  By  the  gre't  horn  spoon,  it 's  a  lynk  !  " 
Sam  burst  out.  "  I  thought  't  was  cur'ous  a 
coon  hed  n't  no  more  tail !  Hurrah  for  you. 
Uncle  Lisher  !  Killed  more  'n  you  could 
fetch  home  alone,  did  n't  ye  ?  Say,  did  the 
pup  tree  him  ?  " 

"  Not  nary  one^"  the  old  man  panted,  as 
he  came  up  and  let  fall  his  end  of  the  bidky, 
but  light  burden.  "  This  'ere  boy  shot  the 
ci'ittur  all  hisself  'fore  I  come  auigh  !  He  '11 
hafter  tell  haow  he  got  his  gun,  I  gaiess, 
hisself.  I  told  him  I  guessed  you  'd  ortu 
lick  him,  but  don't  believe  you  will." 

"  Sis  seen  him  fust !  "  the  boy  cried,  in  a 
glow  of  magnanimity,  and  then  for  himself, 
"  Unc'  Lisher  said  't  was  '  one  o'  these 
days ' !  " 

"  Never  mind  about  that  naow,"  said  Sam. 
"  You  don't  mean  tu  say  Sammy  shot  the 
crittur,  Uncle  Lisher  ?  " 


140  SAM'S   BOY 

"  I  du,  sartain ;  naow  liaow  was  't, 
Sammy  ?  " 

Then,  while  the  two  women  purred  over 
them,  the  two  children  began  in  one  voice  to 
tell  the  story,  and  Sam  hstened  attentively 
and  did  his  best  to  unravel  the  thread  of  it 
out  of  the  babel  of  voices. 

"  Wal,  Bub,"  he  asked,  when  it  was  fin- 
ished in  a  way  and  for  that  time,  "  does  this 
'ere  lynk  look  consid'able  like  the  one  you 
was  tellin'  o'  seein'  daown  by  the  orchard  ?  " 

"  No  gre't,  but  I  guess,  mebby,  that 
wa'n't  a  reg'lar  one,"  said  Sammy,  in  some 
confusion. 

The  news  of  the  Lovel  boy's  exploit 
went  like  wildfire,  and  the  townsfolk  came 
flocking  to  the  house  to  see  the  lynx,  and  its 
youthful  slayer,  who  was  in  some  danger  of 
being  puffed  up  with  his  sudden  fame,  but 
on  the  whole  carried  himself  with  commend- 
able modesty,  and  never  failed  to  give  his 
sister  due  credit  for  discovery  of  the  beast. 

Among  the  first  visitors  on  the  following- 
day  was  Gran'ther  Hill,  stamping  up  the 
path  in  exceedingly  grim  good  humor. 

"  Good-mornin',  Cap'n  Hill.     Come  over 


THE   LYNX  141 

tu  see  the  lynk  ?  Wal,  he  's  right  raound 
here  in  the  woodshed,"  Sam  said,  going  out 
to  lead  the  way. 

"  Mornin'.  No,  I  would  n't  give  a  soo- 
markee  tu  see  no  lynk,  —  seen  more  on  'em 
'an  I  wanted  tu  when  I  was  a-trappin'  saple. 
I  want  tu  see  that  little  divil  o'  yourn  'at 
shot  him  all  by  hisself,  I  hearu  !  Stole  yer 
gun  an'  p'inted  for  the  woods !  By  the 
Lord  Harry  !  I  did  n't  s'pose  there  was  any 
o'  that  sort  o'  boys  bein'  raised  naow-er-days. 
Joseph's  boys  would  n't  du  no  sech  a  thing, 
if  they  be  my  gran' sons.  Josi'  'd  tackle  a 
lynk  spunky  'nough  if  the  lynk  come  tu  him, 
but  he  would  n't  pick  no  quarrel  with  the 
crittur.  But  yourn  pitched  right  in.  Spos'n' 
we  take  a  squint  at  the  tarnal  crittur,"  he 
said,  and  moved  toward  the  woodshed,  where 
the  lynx  lay  in  state,  stretched  at  full  length 
on  the  work-bench. 

It  so  hai)pened  that  Sammy  was  under 
the  bench,  in  search  of  a  bit  of  board  to 
make  a  toy  table  for  Polly,  when  the  two 
entered,  and  remained  there  undiscovered 
by  them,  not  at  first  with  any  thought  of 
hiding  nor  eavesdropi)ing,  and  at  last  through 
sheer  baslifulness. 


142  SAM'S  BOY 

"  By  the  Lord  Harry,  lie  's  a'  ol'  buster !  " 
Gran'tlier  Ilill  declared,  in  surprised  admi- 
ration. "  Tell  ye  what,  he  'd  a  gin  the  young 
uns  a  tough  one  'f  he  'd  only  be'n  waounded, 
but  that  leetle  scamp  o'  yourn  took  him  plum 
in  the  head,  —  put  one  eye  clean  aout ! 
Double  Bs,  was  the  shot  ?  " 

"  Yes,  an'  some  threes,  —  it  was  loaded 
for  a  coon,"  Sam  answered. 

"  An'  the  tarnal  leetle  scamp  hooked  yer 
gim  an'  sneaked  off  huntin'  !  It 's  tew  bad 
lay  in'  sech  temptations  afore  a  boy,  Lovel ! 
You  'd  orter  git  him  a  gun  of  his  own  'at  he 
would  n't  haf  ter  steal." 

"  I  be'n  a-thinkin'  mebby,"  Sam  said,  and 
if  the  hidden  listener  could  have  quite  be- 
lieved his  ears  he  could  not  have  withheld 
some  audible  expression  of  joy. 

"  You  see,  your  gun  's  'baout  as  long  an' 
heavy  as  my  ol'  Deliverance,  an'  he  can't 
hoi'  it  arm's  len'th,  an'  so  long  in  the  stock 
I  don't  see  haow  he  can  reach  the  tricker. 
You  wanter  git  him  one  'at  he  can  handle, 
Lovel,"  and  Sammy  did  not  hear  his  father's 
reply,  as  the  two  went  out  and  left  him  free 
to    come    forth.       Presently    he    heard    his 


THE  LYNX  143 

father  calling  him,  and  went  to  him  and  the 
old  veteran,  with  a  brightness  in  his  eye 
and  withal  a  shamefacedness  whereof  they 
did  not  guess  the  cause. 

"  Here 's  Cap'n  Hill  come  tu  see  you, 
Sammy.  He  's  be'n  a-lookin'  at  your  aui- 
mil,'"  Sam  informed  him. 

"  Yes,  I  wanter  shake  hands  wi'  ve  an' 
tell  ye  't  I  'm  praoud  on  ye,  if  ye  be  sech  a 
tarnal  leetle  fool  as  to  go  huntin'  wil'  beasts 
on  yer  own  hook  !  But  I  like  yer  spunk,  if 
ye  did  hook  yer  daddy's  gun.  Did  he  lick 
ye  for  that  ?  No  ?  Wal,  you  desarved  it, 
but  ye  won't  du  so  agin." 

Sammy's  heart  swelled  with  pride  at  the 
patriarch's  qualified  praise,  and  he  felt  that 
he  ought  to  be  very  gi-atef  ul  that  he  was  not 
whipped,  as  all  seemed  to  agree  he  deserved, 
though  he  did  not  understand  why. 

"  That  'ere  Antwine  Canuck 's  a-comin' 
tu  see  the  show,"  Gran'ther  remarked  with 
disgust,  intently  scrutinizing  an  approaching 
figure.  "  I  got  enough  o'  his  breed  when  I 
was  in  Canerdy  along  wi'  Seth  Warner,  an' 
I  guess  I  '11  go  in  an'  see  Lisher,"  and  with 
that  he  entered  the  shop,  attended  by  Sam, 


144  SAM'S  BOY 

"  Well,  sell,  Bawb,  Ali  '11  hear  you  ketch 
some  pussy.  Dat  so,  prob'ly  ? "  Antoine 
asked,  as  he  drew  near  Sammy. 

"  No,  it 's  a  lynk,  Mr.  Antwine,  'baout  as 
big  a  one  as  ever  I  see,"  Sammy  answered, 
resenting  such  belittling  of  his  exploit. 
"  Come  an'  look  at  him,"  and  he  led  the 
way  into  the  shed  with  the  air  of  the  owner 
of  a  menagerie. 

"  Huh  I  "  Antoine  ejaculated  at  the  first 
sight  of  the  formidable-looking  brute  ;  then 
quickly  reassuring  himseK,  "  Oh,  dat  was 
one  leetly  loupcervier  I  Ah  '11  use  for  keel 
it  in  Canada  jes'  sem  you  mices.  Oh,  lot  of 
it,  Ah  tol'  you.  Ah  '11  keel  'em  on  mah 
henroos'  good  many  tam  ;  jes'  touch  hoi'  of 
hees  hin'  leg  an'  strack  a  stone  wid  hees 
head  of  it,  sem  any  cats." 

Sammy  could  not  forbear  expressing  doubt 
as  to  this.  "  I  don't  b'lieve  anyb'dy  could 
kill  our  ol'  brindle  Tom  so,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  yas  ;  dat  jes'  heasy  lak  ile,"  An- 
toine asserted,  with  perfect  assurance. 
"  Honly  you  got  for  be  sure  you  keel  it 
'nough,  'cause  cat  gat  nan  life.  Prob'ly  dat 
loupcervier  got  for  be   keel   'baout   height 


THE  LYNX  145 

more  tarn,   'cause  secli  leetly  boy  hant  be 
hable  for  keel  it  all  up  wj|l  oue  shoot." 

Sammy  found  little  satisfaction  in  acting 
as  showman  to  such  an  audience,  and  slipped 
out  quite  imceremoniously,  whereupon  An- 
toine  went  to  the  shop.  Gran'ther  Hill  re- 
treated to  the  kitchen,  but  was  not  left  long 
in  peace,  for  presently  Mrs.  Purington  ar- 
rived, burdened  with  more  than  her  usual 
"  feelin's,"  which  were  not  relieved  when 
she  heard  a  circumstantial  accovmt  of  the 
kiUing  of  the  lynx. 

Heaving  deep  sighs  during  the  recital, 
when  it  ended  she  said,  "  So  that 's  what 's 
come  tu  the  gaownd  o'  my  own  spinnin'  an 
weavin',  which  I  colored  it  likewise  wi'  my 
own  hands,  tu  be  tore  tu  ribbons  by  wild- 
cats !  An'  that  innercent  child  tu  be  led 
inter  the  jaws  o'  death,  as  it  ware,  by  her 
own  an'  only  brother,  arter  him  Hrsteahn'  of 
his  father's  gun  loaded  dangerous !  Oh, 
dear  me,  suzzy  day !  But  it  hain't  no 
more  'n  was  tu  be  nat'rally  expected,  not  one 
mite  more  !  What 's  goin'  tu  be  become  o' 
that  'ere  boy  is  turrible  tu  think  on  !  " 

Sniffing  hard  at  her  smelHng  bottle,  she 


146  SAM'S  BOY 

fixed  a  steadfast,  sorrowful  gaze  upon  her 
grandson,  who  was  beginning  to  realize  that 
a  hero's  wreath  is  entwined  with  thorns. 
But  Gran'ther  Hill  dulled  their  sharpness 
when,  glowering  on  Mrs.  Purington,  and 
emphasizing  his  words  with  a  crescendo  of 
thumps  of  his  staff,  he  growled  in  his 
defense. 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what,  marm,  won't  be  become 
on  him.  He  won't  grow  up  no  puddin'- 
headed,  chicken-hearted,  tew-good-for-tu-live 
sorter  chap.  He  '11  know  which  end  of  a 
gun  shoots,  an'  haow  tu  shoot  it,  an'  he 
won't  be  afeard  o'  the  divil,  an'  if  the' 
comes  a  time  endurin'  of  his  life  'at  his 
country  needs  a  sojer,  she  '11  know  where  to 
find  one,  an'  a  mighty  good  one,  tew,  if 
some  blasted  ol'  fool  don't  turn  tu  an'  sj)ile 
him  !  "  And  he  went  stamijing  outdoors  and 
down  the  path. 

The  lynx  was  taken  to  the  store  where 
Claphani  was  glad  to  keep  it  as  long  as  he 
could  for  the  customers  it  attracted.  One 
day  a  college  professor  came  from  Burling- 
ton, and  offered  five  dollars  for  the  animal 
to  place  in  the  museum  of  his  institution, 


THE  LYNX  147 

and  this,  with  the  five  dollars  bounty  paid 
by  the  State,  constituted  wealth  which 
seemed  inexhaustible,  until  Sammy  learned 
that  such  a  gun  as  he  wanted  would  cost  ten 
dollars.  Then  he  knew  how  to  invest  it, 
but  he  felt  that  his  sister  ought  to  share  it, 
and  a  gun  would  do  her  no  good. 

Then  one  never-forgotten  November  day 
his  father  came  home  from  Vergennes  and 
brought  from  the  old  gunsmith  Seavers  a 
brand-new  fowling  piece  with  a  percussion 
lock  and  a  walnut  stock  and  a  silver  sight, 
—  a  beauty  of  a  gun  in  those  days.  There 
was  also  a  doU  for  Polly,  with  white  and 
pink  cheeks,  cherry-red  lips,  real  flaxen 
hair,  and  eyes  as  blue  as  the  sky,  and  that 
coidd  be  made  to  shut  in  a  way  that  was 
wonderful,  if  not  life-like.  She  was  clad  in 
raiment  which  was  a  realization  of  Polly's 
dreams  of  Malviny's  waixlrobe,  and  brought 
with  her  a  teaset  of  the  brightest  pewter. 

Gun,  doll,  and  their  outfits  were  the  ad- 
miration of  grown-up  folk,  and  the  happy 
owners  made  many  of  their  young  mates 
happy  by  sharing  their  use.  Not  that 
Sammy  ever  lent  his  gmi  to  even  his  best 


148  SAM'S  BOY 

friend  but  by  going  with  it  himself,  for  that 
was  a  rule  his  father  taught  him  strict  ad- 
herence to  ;  nor  that  the  new  doll  ever  went 
abroad  but  in  charge  of  her  mistress ;  nor 
was  the  teaset  ever  lent  except  in  her  care, 
thovigh  there  was  not  another  dish  in  Danvis 
that  was  not  freely  lent  in  case  of  necessity. 


CHAPTER  Xin 

SCHOOL    DAYS 

Sammy's  scliool  education  was,  like  that 
of  most  Danvis  boys  of  his  generation,  got 
in  the  district  school,  taught  in  summer  by 
a  mistress,  in  winter  by  some  college  stu- 
dent, who  took  this  way  of  earning  his  tui- 
tion fees. 

As  such  Mr.  Horace  Mumpson  first  came 
to  teach  a  winter  term  in  "  Deestric'  Thir- 
teen," or  the  "  HiU  Deestric',"  as  well 
known  by  one  title  as  the  other.  He  re- 
turned the  next  winter  and  the  next,  and 
again  after  his  graduation,  instead  of  begin- 
ning the  study  of  what  Solon  Briggs  called 
a  "  puffession."  Uncle  Lisha  explained 
this  on  the  ground  that  "  Mr.  Mumpson 
wa'n't  mean  enough  tu  be  a  lawyer,  nor 
tough  enough  tu  be  a  darkter  or  a  minister, 
and  lufted  for  tu  teach  school."  At  any 
rate,  he  taught  the  same  school  term  after 


150  SAM'S   BOY 

term  in  the  winter,  until  he  became  as  regu- 
lar a  winter  fixture  of  the  battered  old 
schoolliouse  as  its  cracked  and  rusty  old 
stove.  The  pale,  soft-eyed,  gentle-mannered, 
young  man  was  honored  and  respected  by 
his  pupils,  though  there  was  not  a  sixteen- 
year-old  boy  among  them  who  could  not 
throw  him  "  arm's  len'th  "  or  "  side  holt," 
and  he  was  such  a  favorite  with  the  parents 
that  each  household  in  the  district  counted 
the  weeks  till  he  should  become  a  member 
of  it  in  "  boardin'  'raoun'." 

The  summers  brought  changes  and  variety, 
when  a  female  was  employed  on  the  base  of 
economy.  Sometimes  it  was  a  gaunt,  sharp 
spinster,  who  was  a  "  schoolmarm  "  by  pro- 
fession or  long  habit  of  never  doing  any- 
thing else.  She  was  always  a  zealous  church 
member,  and  generally  on  the  lookout  for  a 
bereaved  deacon  or  class  leader.  Sometimes 
it  was  a  fresh  young  girl  who  took  this  way 
to  earn  a  little  spending  money  or  to  help 
in  the  support  of  a  large  brood  of  younger 
children. 

Sammy  was  seven  years  old  when,  with 
his    face    freshly  scrubbed  and   clothes  un- 


SCHOOL   DAYS  151 

comfortably  new  and  clean,  his  mother  led 
him  unwillingly  to  school  and  put  him  in 
charge  of  Miss  Almira  Skinner,  a  lady  of 
many  years'  experience  in  life  and  school- 
teaching,  which  had  not  sweetened  her  tem- 
per nor  increased  her  love  of  children.  By 
great  good  fortune  he  was  assigned  a  seat 
from  which  he  could  reach  the  floor  with  his 
feet,  and  a  desk  that  he  coidd  rest  his  new 
spelling  book  upon,  and  he  derived  much 
satisfaction  from  scratcliing  and  carving  va- 
rious devices  upon  it  in  addition  to  the 
countless  ones  it  already  bore.  Iluldah  in- 
sinuated enough  of  her  ample  form  into  the 
space  between  the  desks  to  maintain  an 
uneasy  hold,  while  Sammy's  lesson  of  tlu^ee- 
lettered  words  was  given  him.  His  eyes 
wandered  from  it  to  watch  the  elfish  tricks 
of  Antoine's  numerous  progeny  making  defi- 
ant grimaces  and  shaking  their  fists  at  the 
schoolmistress  when  her  back  was  turned, 
and  instantly  fixing  their  black  eyes  de- 
murely on  their  books  when  she  faced  them. 
When  his  entranced  gaze  became  held  by 
the  naughty  pantomime,  his  mother  violated 
the  maternal  instincts  in  witldiolding  reproof, 


152  SAM'S  BOY 

and  ill  slipping  stealthily  from  the  seat  and 
out  of  doors ;  then,  with  her  heart  smiting 
her  for  deserting  her  boy,  she  sped  guiltily 
homeward. 

It  was  not  long  before  Miss  Skinner's 
sharp  eyes  discovered  Sammy's  neglect  of 
his  work,  and  she  reprimanded  him  so 
sharply  that  it  appalled  him,  being,  as  he 
sujjposed,  in  the  presence  of  his  mother. 
What  might  he  expect  when  left  to  his  own 
weak  defense,  and  lo,  when  he  dared  to  turn 
his  head  an  instant  from  his  book,  she  was 
gone !  His  heart  sank  from  his  body  and 
left  in  its  place  the  sickness  of  utter  loneli- 
ness. The  moment  strength  enough  came 
back  to  liis  weak  legs,  without  a  thought  of 
proprieties  or  consequences,  he  dashed  wildly 
from  his  seat  out  of  doors,  and  down  the 
road  at  top  speed,  never  heeding  the  impera- 
tive tattoo  beat  by  Miss  Skinner  with  her 
ferule  on  the  shingles  of  the  schoolhouse  wall, 
nor  her  shrill  command,  "  Come  back,  this 
minute  !  "  On  he  went,  like  a  wild  bird  es- 
caped from  a  cage,  nor  ever  checked  his  pace 
till,  panting  and  sobbing,  he  burst  into  the 
shop  and  threw  himself  ujDon  a  pile  of  leather. 


SCHOOL   DAYS  153 

"  Why,  good  airth  an'  seas,  child  alive  ! 
what  is  the  matter  of  you  ?  I  s'posed  you 
was  tu  school !  "  the  old  shoemaker  cried  iu 
great  surprise. 

Sammy  hung  his  head  and  made  no  an- 
swer. 

"  I  hope  aour  man  hain't  been  duin' 
naughty  an'  got  a  whippin'  the  very  fust 
day  he  ever  went  tu  school,  an'  in  the 
mornin'  tew,"  his  old  friend  inquired,  with 
a  shade  of  reproach  in  his  tone. 

Sammy  shook  his  head. 

"  Kinder  lunsome,  mebby  ?  " 

The  downcast  head  nodded. 

"  But  I  thought  his  mammy  went  'long  for 
tu  wont  him,  an'  sorter  smooth  off  the  paigs  ?  " 

"  But  she  come  off  when  I  did  n't  know 
it,"  Sammy  answered,  coming  to  speech  at 
last.  "  I  was  lookin'  at  Mr.  Antoine's 
young  uns  cuttin'  up  shines,  an'  the  school- 
marm  gi'  me  a  scoldin',  an'  I  coidd  n't  help 
it.  1  hed  tu  come !  Oh,  dear  !  I  hate  the 
plaguy  oF  school,  an'  do'  want  tu  go !  " 
The  poor  boy  broke  down,  sobbing  so  loudly 
that  Uncle  Lisha  was  afraid  he  would  be 
heard  in  the  kitchen. 


154  SAM'S  BOY 

"  S-s-s-sh  !  They  '11  hear  us  a-talkin'  on  in 
the  other  room  !  "  he  whispered  as  audibly. 
"  Le'  's  sneak  off  'fore  they  du.  I  wish  't 
I  lied  me  my  cwut  in  here,  but  my  shirt 's 
tol'able  clean  —  put  't  on  yist'day !  "  he  re- 
marked, inspecting-  the  sleeves,  as  he  slipped 
off  his  apron  and  drew  down  his  chin  and 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  in  an  odd  grimace 
to  assist  him  in  getting  a  better  view  of  his 
shirt  front.  Then  carefully  brushing  his 
trousers  and  washing  his  hands  as  well  as 
he  could  in  the  soaking  tub,  he  put  on  his 
hat,  and  led  Sammy  out  of  doors,  the  little 
boy  wondering  silently  what  was  to  come  of 
it,  with  a  sickening  dread  in  his  heart  of 
what  might  be  the  import.  They  took  a 
roundabout  way,  as  much  out  of  sight  of  the 
kitchen  as  possible,  till  the  road  was  reached, 
and  then  conversation  was  resumed. 

"  Be  you  goin'  tu  take  me  back  there. 
Uncle  Lisher  ?  "  Sammy  ventured  to  ask  in 
a  quavering  tone. 

"  Why,  yes,  course  I  be  !  What  would 
his  folks  say  if  they  knowed  he  'd  run 
away  ?  " 

"  I  'm  goin'  tu  run  f  urder  nex'  time,  an' 


SCHOOL   DAYS  155 

go  tu  sea  on  a  ship,  same  as  you  tol'  me 
your  brother  did.  You  see  if  I  don't !  " 
said  Sammy  desperately. 

"  He  'd  git  awful  tired  o'  runnin'  so  fur," 
Uncle  Lisha  said. 

"Did  you  useter  haf  tu  go  tu  school?" 
Sammy  asked. 

"  In  course.  Everybody  lies  tu  't  can,  or 
we  woidd  n't  know  no  more  'n  dumb  beasts." 

"  They  git  along  jes'  as  well  as  folks." 

"  They  can't  read  no  good  books,  nor  write 
no  letters  tu  one  nuther." 

"  Did  you  lufter  go,  Uncle  Lisher  ? " 
Sammy  asked. 

"  No  I  did  n't,  more  's  the  pity,"  the  old 
man  answered  honestly.  "  Only  for  what 
fun  I  got  aouten  playin"  noons  an'  re-cesses, 
an'  cuttin'  up  in  school-time,  not  till  the 
last  winter  'fore  I  went  tu  I'arn  my  trade  an' 
could  n't  go  no  more.  Then  I  duffed  in  like 
a  good  feller,  an'  lufted  tu." 

"  Did  you  ever  run  away,  Uncle  Lisher  ?  " 
Sammy  asked  anxiously. 

"  More  'n  oncte ;  I  'm  'feard  I  wa'n't  none 
tew  good,"  Uncle  Lisha  confessed. 

"  An'  did  you  git  licked  fust  ?  " 


156  SAM'S  BOY 

"  Never  missed  on't,  an'  as  if  that  wa'n't 
'nough,  I  ketched  it  agin  when  I  got  hum. 
That  was  the  fashion  them  days." 

"  You  s'pose  she  '11  lick  me  ?  "  Sammy 
made  out  to  ask. 

"  I  'm  'feard  she  'd  'most  ortu.  It 's  tur- 
rible  for  tu  cut  an'  run  the  way  you  did," 
said  the  old  man  sorrowfully,  and  poor 
Sammy's  thoughts  were  too  busy  with  the 
approaching  ordeal  for  further  questions. 

"  Mornin',  marm,"  Uncle  Lisha  gave  greet- 
ing, as  he  rapped  on  the  casing  of  the  ojien 
door. 

Miss  Skinner  responded  rather  coldly, 
looking  curiously  at  the  elderly  visitor,  and 
glancing  at  his  small  companion  with  a 
tightening  of  her  thin  lips. 

"  We  got  took  humsick  sudden,  so  we 
cut  stick  for  hum,  but  we  're  shamed  on't 
naow,  an'  begs  pardon,  marm,  an'  won't  du 
so  agin."  Uncle  Lisha  pushed  Sammy 
gently  before  him,  and  made  it  plain  to  Miss 
Skinner  in  pantomime  that  he  did  not  in- 
tend the  apology  to  include  himself. 

"  He  was  a  very  naughty  boy,"  she  re- 
marked, with  severity. 


SCHOOL   DAYS  157 

"  Yes,  marm,"  Uncle  Lisha  cheerfully 
admitted,  "  but  it 's  the  fust  time  we  ever 
went  tu  school,  an'  everji;hing  's  kinder  odd 
an'  mismated,  which  it  bein'  the  case  an' 
aour  age  bein'  only  seben,  goin'  on  eight, 
we  're  a-hopesin'  you  won't  pinch  aour  toes 
tew  hard  a-gittin'  broke  in,  but  kinder  give 
the  luther  a  chance  tu  stretch  gradwel." 

Miss  Skinner  uttered  a  noncormnittal 
"  M-m — m,"  and  asked,  "  Be  you  the  child's 
payrent  or  guardeen  ?  "  She  taught  gram- 
mar to  her  more  advanced  pupils,  but  other- 
wise had  Httle  use  for  it. 

"  Wal,  no,  marm,  not  nary  one.  Me  an' 
my  ol'  womern  lives  tu  his  father's,  an'  I 
shoemake  for  a  livin'.  My  name  is  Lisher 
Paiggs,  an'  if  you  was  a-wantin'  any  leetle 
job  o'  tappin'  or  patchin'  done,  I  'd  be  more  'n 
praoud  tu  du  it  free-gratis-for-nothin',  seein' 
you  're  aour  schoolmarm." 

A  keen,  professional  first  glance  had 
shown  him  that  Miss  Skinner's  footgear  was 
in  need  of  repair,  and  that  frugahty  was 
one  of  her  traits. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Peggs,"  she  said,  in  a 
softer  tone,  "  I  was  a-considerin'  his  youth. 


158  SAM'S  BOY 

and  don't  want  to  punish  him  too  severe, 
but  at  the  same  time  the'  'd  be  an  end  of  all 
discipline  if  such  breakin'  of  rules  wa'n't 
punished  some." 

"  Sai-tinly,  marm.  We  wa  'n't  expectin'  not 
tu  git  punished  some,  but  if  you  could  git  a 
tol'able  fit  wi'  suthin'  besides  whippin',  we  'd 
be  turrible  'bleeged  tu  ye,  marm." 

"  Timothy  Samuel,"  said  she,  in  a  judicial 
tone,  after  some  consideration,  "  you  '11  take 
your  spellin'  book  an'  stand  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  and  study  your  lesson  diligent 
twenty  minutes,  and  you  're  tu  stay  in  when 
the  boys  go  aout." 

With  the  delivery  of  the  sentence  she 
placed  the  book  in  his  passive  hand,  and 
with  the  ferule  indicated  the  jjlace  where  he 
was  to  stand,  but  lais  feet  seemed  powerless 
to  move  to  place  him  there.  How  could  he 
ever  stand  there  alone  for  all  those  long 
minutes,  to  be  stared  at  by  so  many  eyes ! 

"  Come,  sir  !  "  Miss  Skinner  commanded 
sharply.     "  Sulkin'  won't  help  you  a  mite." 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  marm,  it  liain't  that ; 
it 's  'cause  we  're  bashf'l,"  said  Uncle  Lisha, 
and  with  that  took  Sammy's  hand  and  led 


SCHOOL   DAYS  159 

him  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  where,  stooping 
beside  him,  his  big  waxy  forefinger  stickuig 
on  the  page  as  it  went  slowly  down  the  col- 
umn, he  helped  him  go  through  his  lesson. 

"  C-a-t — cat !  "  he  spelled  in  a  gusty  whis- 
per, louder  than  the  buzzing  of  a  bumblebee 
in  the  window,  and  then  explained,  "jest 
any  cat,  Polly's  an'  the  ol'  cat,  an'  ol'  Tom, 
an'  the  hul  bihn'.  Bom  bye  you  '11  come  tu 
kitten,  an'  it 's  harder,  for  all  it  's  a  leetle 
cat.  D-o-g — dog,  not  aour  Drive  in  par- 
tic'lar,  nor  a  haoun'  dawg,  but  any  sort  on 
'em,  an'  there  you  be  agin  ;  a  leetle  dog  's 
harder  tu  spell  'an  a  big  one.  Cur'ous, 
hain't  it?  Oh,  I  tell  ye  what,  I'arnin'  is 
mighty  interestin'." 

If  a  scholar  dared  to  giggle  openly  he  was 
glowered  upon  so  savagely  that  he  was  awed 
to  silence,  and  kept  his  eyes  thereafter  riveted 
as  fixedly  on  his  book  as  the  culprit  on  his. 
Thus  the  old  man  lightened  Sannny's  pun- 
ishment, and  at  the  same  time  made  the 
others  apply  themselves  more  closely.  When 
the  little  boy  was  permitted  to  take  his  seat 
Uncle  Lisha  got  his  stout,  short  legs  in  along- 
side, and  sat  with  liim  through  the  remaining 


160  SAM'S   BOY 

study  hours  and  the  boisterous  jolly  recess  of 
the  boys.  During  that  quarter  hour  of  in- 
door quiet  they  studied  the  hieroglyphics  of 
the  desk  and  found  among  them  Sam  Lovel's 
initials  carved  by  his  own  hand  fifteen  years 
before,  and  Joseph  Hill's  name  in  full,  bear- 
ing an  earlier  date,  and  in  evidence  of  his 
characteristic  indecision,  the  foot  of  one  "  1 " 
being  turned  to  the  right,  the  other  to  the 
left.  "  Solon  Briggs,  Annuls  Dominos  1820," 
whereat  Uncle  Lisha  racked  his  brain  to  re- 
call to  mind  a  Danvis  girl  bearing  the  latter 
name.  Sammy  missed  scarcely  a  word  of 
his  spelling  lesson,  and  when  fortified  at  noon 
by  a  generous  luncheon  felt  brave  enough  to 
undertake  going  throTigh  the  afternoon  alone. 
So,  bidding  him  good-by  and  to  be  a  good 
boy,  and  reminding  Miss  Skinner  to  send  her 
shoes  over  to  him  next  day.  Uncle  Lisha 
trudged  home  in  time  for  a  late  dinner  with 
the  plausible  excuse  that  "  he  hed  be'n  on  a 
taower  for  his  health." 

The  summer  of  school  that  on  its  first  day 
Sammy  looked  forward  upon  as  an  intermin- 
able season  of  torture  proved  not  nearly  so 
bad  in  actual  experience.     He  was  not  an 


SCHOOL  DAYS  161 

ambitious  scholar ;  the  study  of  his  lessons 
was  an  irksome  task,  from  which  his  thoughts 
would  always  be  wandering  out  to  the  blue 
sky,  the  green  woods,  and  the  flashing  brooks. 
Miss  Almira  Skinner  was  a  strict  disci- 
plinarian, who  seldom  spared  the  rod  and  laid 
it  on  with  no  gentle  hand.  Once  caught  by 
her  at  their  monkey  tricks  the  Bissette  chil- 
dren never  repeated  them.  Sammy  was  not 
in  danger  of  dying  young  through  being  too 
good,  but  merely  a  rough,  noisy,  mischievous 
boy,  apt  to  play  naughty  pranks,  yet  too 
honest  to  escape  punislunent  by  lying.  Once 
he  achieved  a  triumph  of  invention  in  con- 
triving to  hold  a  long  thorn  between  liis 
naked  first  and  second  toes,  so  that  he  could 
secretly  prod  the  boy  who  sat  in  front  of  him. 
The  first  —  and  last  —  was  eminently  suc- 
cessful ;  it  brought  forth  a  yell  from  the  sur- 
prised victim  that  started  the  whole  school. 
Suspicion  at  once  fell  on  Sammy.  Miss 
Skinner  charged  him  with  the  crime,  and 
when  he  would  not  deny  it,  she  sent  him  out 
for  a  rod  suitable  for  his  chastisement.  As 
he  carefully  searched  the  grove  behind  the 
schoolhouse,  a    smooth-barked    white    birch 


162  SAM'S   BOY 

caiiglit  liis  eye,  and  inspired  liim  with  a 
happy  thought.  On  the  instant  he  whipped 
out  his  jackknife  and  j)eeled  off  a  sheet  from 
the  trunk,  which  was  about  the  same  diam- 
eter as  his  body  and  as  long  as  from  his  neck 
to  his  hij)s.  He  made  a  pair  of  armholes  in 
the  upper  part,  slipped  off  coat  and  vest  and 
put  on  this  primitive  armor  next  his  shirt. 
He  had  barely  time  to  replace  his  clothing, 
when  the  impatient  beat  of  the  ferule  sum- 
moned him  to  return.  Hastily  cutting  the 
first  stout  switch  at  hand,  and  trimming  it 
as  he  ran,  he  presented  himself  for  pmiish- 
ment. 

"  Was  you  waitin'  for  a  switch  tu  grow  ?  " 
Miss  Skinner  demanded,  with  sharp  sarcasm. 

"No,  marm,"  he  answered  meeldy. 

"  Well,  if  you  was  all  this  time  a-looldng 
for  one  you  might  have  faound  a  better,  I 
should  think,"  she  said,  examining  and  test- 
ing the  stick  with  critical  eye  and  hand. 

"  They  're  'most  all  used  up,  I  guess, 
marm,"  Sammy  ventured  to  suggest. 

"  We  '11  see  't  this  one  is,"  said  she,  and 
began  to  lay  on  lustily. 

Sammy    feigned    the   keenest    suffering, 


SCHOOL  DAYS  163 

writliing  and  howling  so  that  when  Miss 
Skinner  desisted  from  sheer  exliaustion,  she 
felt  that  she  had  never  administered  punish- 
ment with  more  satisfaction  to  herself,  while 
if  she  could  have  but  known  it,  her  victim  as 
fully  shared  her  feeling.  He  hid  his  armor 
in  a  convenient  hollow  stump,  and  it  served 
him  again  on  more  than  one  occasion. 

Winter  brought  good  Mr.  Mumpson  to 
preside  over  a  larger  school,  and  it  brought 
the  robust  outdoor  sports  of  snowballing, 
sliding,  and  skating  that  made  the  fifteen 
minutes  of  recess  impatiently  waited  for,  and 
the  nooning  an  hour  of  concentrated  delight, 
when  the  happy  owners  of  skates  rushed 
whooping  to  the  nearest  ice  patch ;  others  slid 
down  hill  on  their  home-made  sleds,  with  run- 
ners sawn  from  natural  crooks  and  beams 
fastened  to  them  with  wooden  pins,  or  sim- 
pler sleds  with  board  runners  and  jumpers 
made  of  barrel  staves.  Another  rabble  of 
yelling  young  savages  assailed  a  fort  of  snow, 
defended  by  as  noisy  a  band  of  warriors. 
The  master  was  now  with  one  company,  now 
with  another,  each  proud  to  have  him  with 
it  for  the  prestige  he  gave,  and  the  plucky 


164  SAM'S  BOY 

spirit  that  dwelt  in  so  weak  a  body.  Then 
there  were  the  Saturday  half-holidays  that 
seemed  long  enough  to  do  anything,  almost 
everything,  in,  though  they  never  did  prove 
quite  sufficient. 

If  Sammy  could  spend  this  half  day  with 
his  bosom  friend  Joseph  Hill's  youngest  son, 
Ben,  he  was  satisfied.  The  next  best  use  of 
it  was  to  visit  with  Uncle  Lisha,  listening  to 
tales  of  his  adventures,  his  memorable  Platts- 
burgh  campaign,  his  journey  to  the  far  West. 
Most  interesting,  perhaps,  to  the  boy  was  to 
compare  their  school  experiences. 

Uncle  Lisha's  schoolhouse  was  built  of 
logs,  with  a  wide  stone  fireplace  that  made  a 
great  show  of  warming  the  big  room,  while 
the  pupils  in  the  far  corners  were  half  frozen, 
the  water  pail  quite  so,  and  there  was  a  con- 
tinual clamor  of  appeal,  "  May  I  go  t'  the 
fire  ?  "  Youngsters  of  Sammy's  years  were 
seated  on  rough  slab  benches,  without  desks, 
and  their  short  legs  sought  in  vain  to  reach 
the  floor.  Sammy  counted  himself  fortunate 
in  living  in  more  luxurious  times,  though 
missing  the  thrilling  exjierience  of  crossing 
wolf  tracks  on  his  way  to  school. 


SCHOOL   DAYS  165 

Though  he  continued  to  be  an  unambi- 
tious scholar  when  he  came  to  study,  and 
heartily  hated  arithmetic,  he  liked  geograj^hy 
a  little  better  and  history  quite  well  for  the 
stories,  and  going  to  school  grew  less  irksome 
as  term  after  term  went  by  without  bringing 
back  Miss  Skinner. 

After  two  or  three  years  Polly  began  go- 
ing, and  the  renewal  of  their  constant  com- 
panionship was  a  great  joy  to  both.  What 
happy  loitering  along  the  road  in  pleasant 
weather,  watching  the  minnows  flashing  like 
silver  arrows  shot  into  the  black  shadows 
of  the  bridge,  or  noting  the  coming  of  the 
swallows,  and  a  little  later  the  bobolinks, 
both  faithfid  to  date  almost  to  a  day,  or  in 
roadside  fields  they  hunted  for  nests,  just  to 
know  where  they  were,  —  they  rarely  did 
know  where  those  of  bobolink  and  meadow- 
lark  were  cunningly  hid.  There  were  flowers 
in  plenty  ;  great  tufts  of  blue  violets  ready 
to  be  picked  by  handf  uls,  only  to  be  beheaded 
by  scores,  by  these  sanguinary  little  gamesters, 
who  would  "  fight  i-oosters  "  till  they  were 
conscience-smitten  to  behold  the  heaps  of 
slain.     After  all,  they  were  no  cruder  than 


166  SAM'S   BOY 

botanists.  Then  there  was  the  triumph  of 
finding  the  first  ripe  strawberry;  then  of 
stringing  a  herdsgrass  stalk  full  of  them  for 
the  schoolma'am,  if  on  the  way  to  school, 
for  mother  or  Aunt  Jerusha,  if  homeward 
bound  ;  and  later,  gathering  a  basketful  for 
supper.  At  noon  they  had  a  daily  picnic  by 
the  brookside  over  the  tin  pail  of  luncheon, 
yet  did  not  long  tarry  over  it,  for  there  was 
a  deal  of  playing  to  be  done  in  that  hour. 

In  winter  they  were  as  close  comrades. 
Sammy's  sled  hauled  the  easier  and  slid 
down  hill  the  faster  when  chubby  little  sister 
was  on  board.  Without  recognizing  it,  he 
felt  a  sort  of  heroism  in  shielding  her  from 
the  fierce  pelting  of  the  snowstorm,  or  in 
carrying  her  across  the  brook  running  a  flood 
in  a  January  thaw.  After  the  killing  of  the 
lynx  he  was  quite  in  danger  of  believing 
himself  a  hero  indeed. 

Sammy  had  a  little  sweetheart,  as  all  boys 
do,  though  they  never,  never  tell  their  love 
in  words,  even  to  the  object  of  their  affections. 
His  sweetheart  was  next  to  the  youngest  of 
Joseph  HiU's  daughters,  the  only  dark-haired, 
dark-eyed  one  of  the  brood,  and  pretty  enough 


SCHOOL   DAYS  167 

to  steal  the  heart  of  any  discriminating  boy. 
He  divided  with  her  the  big  red  Seek-no- 
further  that  was  part  of  his  noon  dessert. 
Polly  had  one  to  herself  ;  he  puzzled  his  un- 
mathematical  brain  over  her  su.ms  more  than 
his  own,  and  gave  her  a  place  on  liis  sled  be- 
tween Polly  and  himself,  when  her  brothers, 
who  had  contempt  for  girls  in  general  and 
sisters  in  particular,  begrudged  her  a  seat  on 
theirs;  he  brought  her  handfuls  of  Dutch- 
man's breeches  and  honeysuckles,  and  great 
green  and  white  sheaves  of  moose  flowers, 
and  as  a  mark  of  special  trust  he  showed  her 
the  rarest  bird's  nests  he  found,  and  saved 
for  her  the  choicest  amber-hued  gum  that  he 
climbed  the  spruces  to  gather.  There  was  a 
tacit  understanding  that  when  they  were  all 
grown  up  she  and  Sammy  and  Sis  were  to 
live  together  somewhere,  when  Sammy  and 
Ben,  who  were  to  be  the  nearest  neighbors, 
would  do  notliing  but  hunt,  trap,  or  fish, 
while  the  women  kept  house,  an  arrangement 
quite  satisfactory  to  all. 

Alas,  that  it  must  be  told.  Sammy  was 
fickle,  and  one  sunmier  made  an  Indian  gift 
of  his  heart  and  bestowed  it  uj)on  a  taU, 


168  SAM'S   BOY 

willowy,  pink-and-white  schoolmistress,  ten 
years  his  senior.  For  her  now  were  the 
flowers,  the  hauclfiils  of  strawberries,  the 
raspberries  gathered  out  of  the  thorny 
thickets  of  fence  corners,  and  amber  jewels 
of  the  spruce  ;  and  as  they  walked  to  and 
from  school  while  she  boarded  at  Sam's,  she 
squeezed  his  hand  in  hers,  strong  and  long, 
yet  very  smooth,  and  he  cast  loving  sheejj's 
eyes  uj)  under  his  hat  brun  at  her  smiling 
pink  face. 

One  Saturday  forenoon  a  chipper  young 
fellow  came  driving  to  the  schoolhouse  in  a 
spick  and  span  new  buggy,  and  Sammy's 
heart  was  righteously  torn  with  jealousy 
when  he  saw  her  feed  this  odious  fop  with 
berries  he  had  given  her  that  very  morning, 
and  the  pair  wagging  their  jaws  in  unison 
over  the  gum  that  was  meant  for  no  lips  but 
hers.  At  noon  they  drove  away  together, 
and  the  poor  boy  spent  the  wretchedest  of 
half-holidays.  Sunday  was  no  better,  but 
on  Monday  the  enchantress  returned  and 
beguiled  him  again  with  her  smiles.  In  the 
fall  when  school  was  ended  the  spell  was 
broken,  for  it  came  out  that  the  pretty  school- 


SCHOOL   DAYS  169 

ma'am  was  to  be  married,  and  had  been 
teaching  to  get  her  wedding  finery.  Sammy 
thirsted  for  the  blood  of  that  little  fop,  and 
was  sure  for  a  week  that  he  could  never  be 
happy  again,  and  was  glad  to  have  the  family 
take  notice  that  his  appetite  was  poor,  mitil 
Airnt  Jerusha  suggested  "  popple  bark  bit- 
ters." The  winter  school  begun,  he  found 
himself  fonder  of  little  M'ri',  and  mortally 
afraid  that  she  would  pay  him  as  he  deserved 
for  his  faithlessness,  but  his  treatment  had 
not  changed  her  faithful,  loving  heart  one 
jot.  She  behaved  just  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  and  their  life  flowed  on  again  in 
the  old  course. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    FIRST    FOX-HUNT 

It  was  November,  and  young  Drive  had 
taken  to  the  serious  duties  of  life  with  a  con- 
viction that  there  was  more  satisfaction  in 
pleasant  and  profitable  duties  than  in  mis- 
chievous pranks.  If  he  robbed  a  hen's  nest 
or  worried  a  cat,  or,  worst  of  all,  gave  the 
sheep  a  frightened  scamper  through  the  ]3as- 
ture,  the  best  he  got  from  it  was  a  brief  tickle 
of  the  palate,  and  the  wild  joy  of  a  forbid- 
den prank  ;  the  most  and  longest  enduring, 
a  chastisement  that  made  his  muscles  quiver. 
If  he  hunted  diligently,  even  though  he  ran 
counter  in  the  excess  of  his  zeal,  he  was  set 
right  and  praised  for  his  good  work,  and  it 
was  a  dehght  to  him  to  hear  the  music  of  his 
own  voice  coming  back  in  the  echoes,  and 
greatest  joy  of  aU  when  the  boom  of  the  gim 
came  to  his  ears,  and  he  made  short  cuts 
along  the  track  to  find  a  dead  fox  lying  at 


THE   FIRST  FOX-HUNT  171 

his  master's  feet,  reeking  that  ecstatic  odor 
he  had  followed  so  many  hours  through 
swamp  and  over  ledge,  now  hot,  now  cold 
and  faint.  Sam  was  quite  satisfied  that 
judicious  training  and  experience  only  were 
needed  to  make  the  young  dog  a  worthy  suc- 
cessor to  his  renoAvned  progenitor. 

Having  killed  four  foxes  before  Drive,  and 
believuig  Sammy  to  have  had  experience 
enough  to  give  a  reasonable  chance  of  escap- 
ing fox  ague,  he  thrilled  the  boy's  heart 
with  the  announcement  one  evening  that  he 
was  to  start  with  him  bright  and  early  m 
the  morning  on  a  fox-hunt.  The  honor  of 
promotion  to  the  rank  and  dignity  of  a  real 
fox-hunter  was  almost  too  great  to  carry. 
He  put  on  mighty  airs  when  Sis  asked  him 
to  bring  her  home  a  nice  partridge  tail  next 
day  for  a  fan  and  some  spruce  cones  for 
a  work-box,  and  said :  "  We  don't  waste 
fox  charges  on  pa'tridges,  nor  go  poking 
'raound  arter  such  nonsense  when  we  're 
a-fox-hunting.  We  hafter  'tend  right  tu 
business !  " 

He  went  into  the  shop,  where  there  hap- 
pened to   be  no  visitors,  and    asked  Uncle 


172  SAM'S  BOY 

Lisha  if  his  sandstone  would  put  a  good  edge 
on  a  knife  to  skin  a  fox. 

"  Rutlier  rank,  I  guess,"  the  okl  man  re- 
plied, and  added,  with  a  twinlde  of  the  eyes 
that  was  not  entirely  pleasant  to  Sammy, 
"  but  I  should  n't  wonder  if  't  would  answer 
your  turn." 

But  Sammy,  pretending  to  ignore  the  im- 
plied doubt,  asked,  "  Say,  Uncle  Lisher, 
haow  du  you  skin  a  fox?  " 

"  Wal,  gen'ally,  the  fust  thing  is  tu  git  it 
killed,"  and  then  seeing  that  this  light  tone 
was  hurting  his  little  friend.  Uncle  Lisha  put 
on  a  sober  face  and  went  on.  "  Wal,  Bub, 
I  never  hed  no  gre't  exper'ence  ;  I  was  eyther 
a  not  gettin'  shots  or  a-missin'  on  'em,  so  't 
when  I  killed  a  fox  't  was  sech  a  job  tu  skin 
him  'at  I  useter  wish  I  coidd  eyther  kill 
enough  tu  I'arn  haow  or  nary  a  one.  Your 
father  '11  skin  one  quicker  'n  you  can  git  off 
a  wet  shirt.  You  want  tu  rip  'em  from  the 
heels  o'  one  hind  foot  tu  t'other,  then  skin 
'em  aout,  an'  the  tail,  an'  then  it 's  nothin' 
but  strippin'  till  you  git  tu  the  fore  laigs  an' 
the  head.  Then  you  got  tu  ta'  keer,  skinnin' 
the  eyes  an'  maouth  an'  cuttin'  off  the  ears. 


THE  FIRST  FOX-HUNT  173 

But  don't  you  worry.  Mebby  you  won't  be 
bothered  no  gre't." 

Sanuny  listened  attentively,  wliile  lie 
sharpened  liis  knife  to  a  feather-edge,  then 
shut  it  with  a  defiant  click,  thinking  how  he 
would  disappoint  the  doubters,  and  marched 
away  to  bed.  To  bed,  but  not  to  sleep,  for 
often  he  raised  his  head  to  listen  if  the  kitchen 
stove  were  makmg  prophecy  of  a  windy 
morning,  or  to  look  out  the  dormer  A\dndow 
to  see  if  a  rain  cloud  was  beginning  to  quench 
the  innumerable  twinkling  lamps  of  the  sky. 
But  they  shone  brightly  when  the  last  embers 
of  the  fire  snapped  out,  and  the  household 
sounds  dropped  one  by  one  into  the  silence 
of  the  night,  till  only  the  regular  long-drawTi 
blasts  of  Uncle  Lisha's  trumpet  and  the 
scampering  of  the  mice  remained  of  them, 
and  in  the  wide  outer  world  only  the  quaver- 
ing voice  of  a  solitary  little  owl  was  heard. 

The  next  sound  he  heard  was  his  father's 
footsteps  on  the  steep  stairs  and  his  voice 
guardedly  calling  him  to  get  up.  Oldening  his 
sleepy  eyes,  he  saw  the  great  patch  of  candle- 
light widening  and  ))rightening  on  the  slop- 
ing ceiling.     Then  he  knew  it  was  the  morn- 


174  SAM'S   BOY 

ing  of  the  mucli-wisliecl-for  day  come  too  soon, 
and  wondered,  as  he  remembered  last  night's 
impatience  for  its  coming,  how  it  coukl  be  so. 
The  stove  was  roaring  and  crackling  mer- 
rily, diffusing  a  comforting  warmth,  and  out 
of  the  oven  doors  came  the  delicate  aroma  of 
baking  potatoes.  It  looked  very  funny  to 
the  boy,  as  he  sat  watching  his  father  through 
sleepy  eyes,  to  see  him  getting  breaMast, 
quite  handily  for  a  man,  yet  not  with  the 
adroitness  of  a  woman,  tiptoeing  between 
stove  and  table,  and  making  many  jovirneys 
to  cupboard  and  pantry  for  things  forgotten, 
and  Drive  getting  often  under  foot  in  the 
double  excitement  of  prospective  early  break- 
fast and  a  day's  hunting.  It  was  odd  for 
Sammy  to  be  eating  breakfast  with  no  one 
but  his  father,  —  a  good  breakfast,  but  with 
a  different  savor  from  those  of  his  mother's 
getting,  —  and  it  was  strange  to  be  out  of 
doors  at  this  unwonted  hour,  with  everything 
unfamiliar  in  the  dim  light,  —  the  fields  all 
white  with  hoarfrost,  the  woods  a  gray  blur, 
the  neighbors'  houses  vague  blots  in  the 
landscape,  and  with  their  smokeless  chimneys 
apparently  as  lifeless  as    the  dim  cones  of 


THE  FIRST  FOX-HUNT  175 

haystacks.  It  was  such  a  silent  world,  too, 
they  were  in  the  midst  of,  voiceless  but  for 
crowing  of  cocks  challenging  and  answering 
fi'om  farmstead  to  farmstead,  the  far-off 
barking  of  a  house  dog,  and  the  great  ham- 
mer of  the  sleepless  forge  shaking  the  air 
with  its  muffled  throb.  It  was  as  if  the  man 
and  boy  and  hound  had  the  world  to  them- 
selves. Sammy's  legs  flew  fast  to  keep  up 
with  his  father's  long,  swinging  stride,  while 
the  hound,  now  seen,  now  only  heard  rustling 
through  the  crisp  grass,  quartered  the  ground 
before  them,  showing  form  and  color  more  as 
daylight  grew,  and  the  little  stars  faded  out 
and  the  planets  paled  in  the  brightening  sky. 
Now  he  suddenly  checked  his  loping  gallop, 
sniffed  the  frosty  grass  eagerly,  and  whim- 
pered his  suppressed  ecstasy  until  at  last  it 
burst  forth  in  a  long-drawn  melodious  chal- 
lenge that  presently  came  back  as  clear  and 
sweet,  in  fainter  repetition,  from  every  hill 
and  woodside.  It  struck  an  answering  chord 
in  the  boy's  soul  that  choked  him  and  brought 
tears  to  his  eyes.  He  was  more  ashamed  of 
this  emotion  than  he  would  have  been  could 
he  have  known  to  what  a  degree  the  tall, 


176  SAM'S  BOY 

bearded  man  shared  it.  The  bugle  notes 
came  faster,  as  Drive  worked  the  trail  foot 
by  foot  steadily,  but,  to  Sam's  surprise,  away 
from  the  nearest  woodland. 

"Sure  you're  right,  be  ye,  dawg?"  he 
said,  following  the  trail  with  his  eye  far  into 
the  field,  where  it  seamed  the  silver  sward, 
and  back  to  where  it  crossed  the  muddy 
swale,  and  found,  as  he  expected,  an  imprint 
of  the  fox's  pad  with  the  nail  marks  pointing 
toward  the  nearest  cover.  He  called  the 
hound  to  it,  pointed  it  out,  and  indicated 
the  right  direction  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 
Drive  dibbled  it  an  instant  with  his  nose, 
looked  as  long  in  the  direction  his  master 
pointed,  then  up  into  his  face,  asking  as 
plainly  with  soft  brown  eyes  as  words  coidd 
have  spoken,  "  Du  you  mean  it,  or  be  you 
foolin'?" 

"  It 's  all  right,  boy ;  pick  it  up  an'  go 
ahead !  "  said  Sara,  giving  the  black-and-tan 
head  an  endearing  and  admiring  pat,  and  the 
dog  went  joyfully  onward  with  an  assured 
confident  note  in  his  mellow  bugle  blasts. 

"  Oh,  I  tell  ye.  Bub,  he 's  a-goin'  tu  make 
jest  as  good  a  haoun'  as  ever  run !  "  cried 


THE  FIRST   FOX-HUNT  177 

Sam.  "  He  's  got  sense.  Naow,  pull  foot 
lively,  for  I  cal'late  he'll  hev  up  liis  fox 
'baout  's  soon  as  he  strikes  Joel's  woods." 

They  hurried  on  to  a  runway,  where  Sam 
placed  his  boy,  and  giving  him  a  few  brief 
instructions,  went  on  to  another.  The  valley 
was  well  aroused  now  from  its  sleepy  silence; 
every  house  dog  within  a  mile  joined  his 
querulous  voice  and  its  score  of  echoes  to  the 
general  clamor ;  a  cowboy  began  shouting 
lustily  to  his  herd ;  a  cowbell  jangled  in  re- 
sponse, and  a  bull  bellowed  sudden  protest ;  a 
flock  of  frightened  sheep  bleated  in  a  harsh, 
discordant  tremolo  ;  a  charcoal  wagon  began 
its  empty,  rmnbling  journey  to  the  pits  ;  and 
when  half  a  dozen  red  squirrels  set  up  a 
snickering  and  jeering,  and  a  flock  of  jays 
began  squalhng,  it  seemed  to  Sammy  as  if 
there  was  a  general  conspiracy  of  noises  to 
drown  the  only  melodious  voice  among  them. 
The  challenge  of  the  hoimd  grew  faint ;  it 
could  scarcely  be  made  out  in  what  direc- 
tion ;  then  it  was  quite  lost ;  then  after  a  while 
came  faintly  into  hearing ;  or  was  it  the  clang 
of  the  cowbell  or  the  tinkle  of  the  brook? 
No,  it  was  Drive's  own  clear  note,  unmis- 


178  SAM'S  BOY 

takable,  now  drawing  near,  nearer,  right  on 
toward  Sammy's  runway.  What  if  he  should 
come,  and  the  heart  beating  ready  to  choke 
him,  and  hand  shaking  like  a  poplar  leaf? 
He  knew  he  must  miss  the  fox  if  he  got  a 
shot,  and  wished  the  animal  might  sheer  off 
just  out  of  range  and  save  him  from  this 
disgrace.  Now  he  heard  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves  under  Reynard's  soft  pads  nearer  and 
nearer,  now  halting  an  instant  to  listen,  now 
coming  on  again  as  Drive's  bugle  notes  broke 
forth  afresh.  There  was  a  flash  of  tawny 
red  against  the  dull  brown  leaves.  Then 
appearing  so  suddenly  that  it  seemed  to  ma- 
terialize from  thin  air,  a  ruddy  form  stood 
like  a  statue  on  a  gray  rock  before  him,  look- 
ing backward  with  pricked  ears  toward  the 
oncoming  hound.  Sammy  saw  only  that,  nor 
thought  where  his  gun  pointed,  nor  how  the 
muzzle  wavered ;  there  was  no  missing  such 
a  mark.  He  pulled  the  trigger  desperately, 
the  form  vanished  behind  the  rock,  and  van- 
ished utterly,  for  when  he  ran  to  it  and  peered 
over  it  there  was  nothing  there  but  dead 
brown  leaves  and  a  low  tangle  of  huckleberry 
bushes.     The   boy's    heart  sank,  leaving    a 


THE  FIRST  FOX-HUNT  179 

sickening  void  in  its  place,  and  the  convic- 
tion forced  itseK  upon  him  that  he  had 
missed  so  fair  a  mark,  and  could  find  no  ex- 
cuse for  having  done  so.  Drive  came  to  him, 
sniffed  the  bare  rock  and  bushes  eagerly ; 
then  turned  a  look  of  inquiry,  disappoint- 
ment, and  reproach  in  his  young  master's  face, 
puzzled  an  instant  over  the  broken  trail,  and 
went  on  with  no  abatement  of  zeal.  Sammy 
searched  the  ground,  the  rocks,  and  the  trees 
for  a  tuft  of  fur,  or  a  drop  of  blood  or  a  shot 
mark,  without  success,  and  then  he  heard 
his  father  coming,  and  prepared  to  face  the 
hardest  trial  of  all. 

"  Wal,  Sammy,  boy,  did  n't  quite  fetch 
him  that  time,  eh  ?  "  his  father  asked,  breath- 
ing hard  from  rapid  walking,  and  wearing 
the  best-natured  of  smiles,  yet  looking  as  if 
a  laugh  might  be  lurking  behind  it. 

"  No,  not  quite,  I  guess,"  Sanuny  answered, 
turning  hot  and  cold  under  a  continual  blush. 
"  An'  he  was  stan'in'  right  on  this  'ere  rock, 
an'  I  p'inted  right  straight  at  him,  an'  it 
didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  miss  him  !  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  his  father  said.  "You 
can't  al'ays  kill  'em,  —  the'  don't  nobody. 


180  SAM'S   BOY 

Mebby  your  gun  hung  fire  half  a  jiffy,  an' 
niebby  you  aimed  at  the  hul  fox.  Did  ye, 
think  ?  " 

Sammy  did  not  think  the  gun  had  hung 
fire,  nor  could  he  recall  that  he  had  held  on 
any  particular  part  of  the  great  red  mark,  so 
big  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  a  charge 
of  shot  to  miss. 

"  I  thought  like  'nough,"  his  father  said. 
"  Older  hands  'an  you  be  makes  that  mistake. 
I  hev,  more  'n  oncte.  Naow,  next  chance 
you  git  you  aim  at  the  critter's  head  or  his 
heart.  This  time,  seein'  'at  he  was  side 
on,  you'd  ortu  p'inted  jest  behind  his  fore 
shoulder." 

"  Du  you  think  I  did  n't  tech  him,  daddy  ?  " 

"  Could  n't  say  sartin,  but  you  made  the 
fur  fly  in  a  bunch  as  fast  as  four  spry  feet 
could  carry  it." 

He  did  not  tell  him  that  some  tall  branches 
of  witch-hazel  were  lopped  by  fresh  jagged 
cuts,  while  the  boy's  heart  was  full  of  grati- 
tude that  he  could  not  express  to  his  kind 
censor. 

"  He 's  a  young  fox,  for  he  hain't  scairt 
off  the  hill  for  once  shootin'  at,"  Sam  said, 


THE   FIRST  FOX-HUNT  181 

after  listening  to  Drive's  regular  baying  as 
the  fox  circled  before  him.  "  Mebby  we  'U 
git  another  crack  at  him." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  southern  end  of 
the  hill,  and  placing  the  boy  on  a  runway, 
chose  another  near  by  for  liimseK.  Sammy 
over  and  over  again  hoped  the  game  would 
give  his  runway  a  wide  berth,  yet  stood 
motionless  as  a  statue,  with  his  carefully 
loaded  gim  at  a  ready,  and  craned  his  neck 
for  a  first  glimpse  of  the  fox.  Now  a  red 
squirrel,  flashing  along  a  fallen  trunk,  set  his 
heart  into  a  wild  flutter,  and  again  the  noisy 
scurry  of  a  chipmunk  in  the  dry  leaves.  A 
boisterous  mob  of  jays  was  coming  toward 
him  by  short  flights,  now  so  near  that  he 
caught  the  glint  of  blue  plumage  through  the 
haze  of  branches;  and  now  he  heard  Drive 
crasliing  through  dry  brush  and  was  sure  he 
heard  lighter  footfalls,  all  coming  steadily 
toward  him.  He  put  the  gun  to  his  shoulder, 
his  cheek  almost  touching  the  stock.  Then 
the  jays  all  at  once  veered  oif  at  a  right  angle, 
and  the  light  rustle  of  the  leaves  was  heard 
going  in  the  same  direction  as  Drive's  crash- 
ing progress  and  eager,  melodious  challenge. 


182  SAM'S  BOY 

So  they  receded  for  a  minute  or  more,  and 
then  came  the  roar  of  Sam's  gun,  the  fright- 
ened jays  flew  squalling  out  of  hearing,  the 
hound  ceased  his  musiq,  and  a  sudden  silence 
succeeded.  The  smoke  of  Sam's  gun  was 
still  drifting  upward  and  among  the  branches, 
and  dissolving  in  the  hazy  air,  when  his  boy 
came  to  where  he  stood,  looking  marvelously 
cool  for  one  who  had  just  performed  so  great 
a  feat.  There  lay  the  fox,  his  sleek  fur 
frowzy  from  the  shaking  that  had  been  the 
reward  of  the  homid,  who  was  lying  hard  by, 
diligently  Hcking  his  chase-worn  feet.  Sam 
having  reloaded  his  gun,  set  it  against  a  tree, 
and  proceeded  to  initiate  his  son  into  the  art 
and  mystery  of  skinning  a  fox. 

"  It 's  a  good  thing  tu  Tarn  tu  du  afore 
you  've  kiUed  one,"  he  said. 

Sanuny  was  proud  to  play  a  part  in  it  by 
puUing  manfully  at  the  legs  during  the  oper- 
ation of  strijDping.  When  the  head  was 
reached  it  gave  proof  in  the  skull,  broken 
and  punctured  by  several  BB  shot,  that  Sam 
practiced  his  preaching,  and  aimed  at  a  par- 
ticular part. 

"Not  ezactly,  nuther,"  he  explained  to  the 


THE   FIRST  FOX-HUNT  183 

boy,  "for  I  p'inted  a  leetle  ahead  of  his 
nose,  'cause  he  was  jest  a-hyperin'.  Guess 
he  got  your  wind." 

He  turned  the  handsome  pelt  fur-side  out, 
rolled  it  up  and  thrust  it  in  his  coat  pocket, 
leaving  the  brush  hanging  conspicuously  out, 
a  bit  of  vanity  of  which  most  fox-hunters 
are  guilty,  and  Sammy  trudged  on  that  side, 
gloating  over  the  trophy  with  curious  eyes, 
and  wishing  most  fervently  that  he  were 
entitled  to  wear  it.  So,  with  Drive  as  eager 
as  ever  for  a  fi^esh  trail,  they  ranged  the 
woods  till  noon  without  finding  any,  and  then 
took  their  way  homeward.  Sammy  felt  free 
now  to  shoot  the  head  o£E  a  partridge  that 
flushed  by  the  hound  alighted  in  a  tree  be- 
fore them,  and  also  to  gather  a  pocketful  of 
the  prettiest  cones  for  the  little  sister. 

Sammy  stretched  himself  at  full  length 
on  the  pile  of  leather  in  the  shop,  and  rested 
his  tired  legs  while  he  made  open  confession 
of  his  blunders  to  Uncle  Lisha. 

"  Daddy  says  I  did  n't  aim  nowhere,  an'  I 
s'pose  it 's  so.  It  don't  seem  as  if  a  feller 
could  miss  such  a  great  big  mark  if  he  shot 
anywhere." 


184  SAM'S   BOY 

"  But  you  faouncl  aout  you  could,"  said 
the  old  man,  unable  to  forego  a  little  good- 
natured  banter.  "  An'  sharpened  up  your 
knife  for  nothin' !  " 

"  But  the  aidge  '11  keep  till  I  go  again, 
an'  I  '11  git  one,  yet,  you  see  if  I  don't !  " 
said  the  boy,  with  more  confidence  than  he 
felt. 

When  Antoine  came  in  with  other  fre- 
quenters of  the  place,  he,  too,  had  heard  by 
some  remarkable  means  of  Sammy's  misad- 
venture, and  scoffed  loudly  at  it. 

"  Ho  !  Che,  boy,  what  for  de  reason  if  you 
could  pull  you  gawn  hard  'nough  for  keel  un 
loupcervier,  you  can'  pull  him  hard  'nough 
for  keel  de  fox,  hein  ?  Ali  '11  believed  you 
can'  never  keel  somet'ing,  honly  dat  loup- 
cervier, an'  dat  was  jes'  happen.  You  bes' 
was  give  me  you  gawn,  den  he  keel  some- 
t'ing ev'ry  tam !  " 

"  'Pears  as  if  I  remembered  me  an'  you 
shootin'  int'  the  thick  o'  a  big  flock  o'  ducks 
daown  t'  the  East  Slang,"  said  Sam,  coming 
to  the  boy's  relief.  "  An'  nary  one  on  us  cut 
a  feather.  If  growed-up  men  can  miss  a 
flock  as  big  as  a  hoss  shed,  we  hed  n't  ortu 


THE  FIRST   FOX-HUNT  185 

be  tew  rough  on  a  boy's  missin'  his  fust 
fox." 

Sammy  nestled  beside  his  father,  with  his 
head  upon  his  knee,  and  Antoine,  in  great 
confusion,  became  deeply  absorbed  in  clean- 
ing his  pipe. 

"  You  see  if  that  'ere  fox  had  be'n  a  foot 
more  one  way  or  t'other,  an'  Bub  hed  p'inted 
two  inches  forward  or  back,  he  'd  'a'  got  the 
critter,"  said  Joe. 


CHAPTER  XV 

TEAPPING 

Sammy  was  very  confident  of  retrieving 
his  fortune,  but  he  ranged  the  hunting 
ground  faithfully  without  the  luck  of  finding 
a  fox.  It  seemed  as  if  there  must  have  been 
a  general  exodus  of  foxes  from  Danvis.  The 
few  trails  found  were  so  cold  that  at  best 
they  drew  only  a  reluctant  challenge  from 
the  keenest-nosed  hound,  and  at  last  faded 
out  to  a  doubtful  suspicion  of  a  scent.  Ex- 
perienced hunters  attributed  these  cold,  in- 
frequent trails  to  a  wise  old  vixen,  who  for 
many  years  escaped  guns  and  insidious  traps 
to  rear  her  yearly  litter  on  Hedge  Hog  Hill, 
and  taught  her  cubs  much  of  the  cunning 
she  had  learned  in  a  long  life.  She  was  a 
plague  to  poultry  wives,  of  which  they  were 
powerless  to  rid  themselves,  as  the  fox- 
hunters  had  no  mind  to  do  so  long  as  she 
provided  foxes  for  their  sport.     It  became 


TRAPPING  187 

an  unwritten  law  of  the  old  hunters  to  let 
her  go  by  if  ever  they  got  a  shot  at  her  ;  and 
she  was  too  cunning  to  be  in  much  danger 
from  the  young  fellows. 

Poor  Sammy  grew  more  and  more  dis- 
couraged with  following  Drive  up  hill  and 
down  dale  to  the  slow  music  of  his  infrequent 
bugle  notes  until  they  ended  in  a  final  long- 
drawn  announcement  of  failure.  If  a  fox 
was  got  up,  the  chase  led  far  away  into  the 
fastnesses  of  the  mountains.  His  father  told 
him  that  there  was  no  use  in  hunting  any 
more  until  the  first  snows  fell,  when  the  foxes 
would  probably  return  from  their  migration. 
But  Sammy  was  so  nettled  by  Antoine's  con- 
tinual scoffs  that  he  was  determined  to  get  a 
fox  by  hook  or  by  crook,  and  as  a  last  resort 
set  a  trap,  as  what  country  boy  has  not? 
He  knew  it  was  a  practice  held  in  utter  de- 
testation by  aU  honest  fox-hunters,  and  by 
none  more  than  by  his  father.  The  temp- 
tation was  great,  and  success  seemed  certain. 
He  would  catch  but  one,  just  to  end  the  ever- 
lasting poking  fun  at  him.  No  one  would 
ever  know  how  he  got  it.  He  easily  possessed 
himself  of  one  of  his  father's  raccoon  traps 


188  SAM'S  BOY 

and  set  about  ridding  it  of  the  scent  of 
iron  which  every  one  said,  except  those  who 
knew,  was  what  a  wise  fox  most  feared. 

He  smoked  it  thoroughly  in  the  pungent 
reek  of  green  hemlock,  and  then  proceeded 
to  make  a  proper  bed  for  its  reception.  First, 
he  removed  the  sod  and  earth  from  a  care- 
fully chosen  knoll,  two  feet  in  diameter  and 
eight  inches  deep,  and  filled  the  hollow  with 
buckwheat,  and  carefully  set  the  trap,  with  a 
wooden  clog  attached,  in  the  lowest  part  of 
the  bed.  When  all  was  completed  it  looked 
to  him  a  very  unsuspicious  arrangement. 
Over  all  he  sprinlded  a  liberal  bait  of  toasted 
cheese  rinds.  He  made  a  gingerly  retreat 
from  the  precincts  with  an  assurance  of  suc- 
cess, somewhat  dampened,  it  is  true,  by  a 
twinge  of  shame  at  using  such  underhand 
means  to  circumvent  a  fox.  Sammy  paid 
his  first  visit  to  the  trap  in  considerable  ex- 
citement, wondering  in  what  condition  he 
should  find  it,  yet  almost  sure  it  would  not 
be  quite  undisturbed,  so  skillfully  was  it 
hidden  and  so  temptingly  baited.  But  not 
a  morsel  of  the  bait  was  touched. 

"  Did  n't  none  happen  tu  come  nigh,  last 


TRAPPING  189 

night,  but  tu-niglit  they  will,  you  '11  see," 
he  said ;  and  one  at  least  did,  for  when 
Sanmiy  approached  the  place,  treading  cau- 
tiously on  tiptoe  and  craning  his  neck,  he  saw 
the  trap  lying  sprimg  and  quite  naked  among 
the  chaff,  and  conspicuously  displayed  on  top 
of  it  the  most  contemptuous  token  of  Rey- 
nard's visit  that  could  be  given.  In  deep 
resentment  of  the  insult,  Sammy  set  the 
trap  with  redoubled  care  and  baited  it  with 
the  choicest  tidbits,  but  all  to  no  purpose, 
save  the  uncovering  of  the  trap  and  a  clean 
sweep  of  the  bait.  Now  his  trapping  came 
to  an  unexpected  end.  Drive  followed  him 
at  some  little  distance  behind  until,  as  he  was 
making  an  unseen,  careful  retreat  from  the 
bed,  he  cast  a  backward  glance  at  it,  when, 
to  his  horror,  he  saw  the  hound  making  a 
curious  examination  of  this  odd  arrangement. 
He  had  only  time  to  call  out  a  sharp  com- 
mand before  the  hound  poked  a  tentative 
paw  into  the  chaff,  sprung  the  trap  upon  it, 
and  thereupon  set  up  a  howl  of  pain  and  as- 
tonishment, followed  by  another  and  another, 
all  loud  enough  to  be  heard  a  mile  away. 
Then  he  made  for  home  as  fast  as  the  clog 


190  SAM'S   BOY 

would  let  liim,  until  Sammy  overhauled  him, 
as  frightened  as  he,  got  a  foot  on  the  spring, 
and  set  him  free.  But  the  hound  continued 
the  dolorous  outcry  as  he  hobbled  homeward, 
now  and  then  stopping  to  examine  his 
pinched  foot.  Sammy  followed  hard  on  his 
heels  till  the  orchard  waU  was  reached,  from 
behind  which  now  suddenly  appeared,  most 
unwelcome  of  possible  apparitions,  the  tall 
form  of  Sam  Lovel,  his  face  expressing  a 
droll  mingling  of  vexation  and  amusement. 

"  What  on  airth  is  the  matter  wi'  the 
dog?  "  he  said,  as  he  stooped  to  examine  the 
hurt  foot,  while  Sammy  stood  aloof,  down- 
headed  and  shamefaced,  with  the  trap  dan- 
gling from  his  hand  and  wisliing  it  a  thousand 
miles  away. 

"I  —  I  —  kinder  guess  he  —  guess  he  got 
intu  a  trap,"  was  the  abashed  reply. 

"I  wonder  who  ever  sot  traps  raound 
here.' 

"I  —  I  —  guess  I  done  it,"  Sammy  stam- 
mered, dreading  open  confession,  though  he 
well  knew  that  in  it  alone  was  peace  of  mind. 

"  I  should  n't  scarcely  ha'  thought  aour 
Bub  would  be  tryin'  tu  ketch  foxes,  —  sech  a 


TRAPPING  191 

mean,  sneakin'  sort  o'  business,  'specierly  for 
a  feller  'at 's  got  him  a  good  dawg  an'  good 
gun.     Wliy,  I  'm  act'ally  'shamed  on  him !  " 

So  Sammy  wanted  to  say  for  himself,  but 
his  quivering  lij)s  would  not  shape  the  words, 
and  he  blubbered  a  blundering  apology  in- 
stead. 

"  They  was  a-laughin'  at  me  —  an'  I 
thought  I  'd  git  one  —  an'  —  an'  make  'em 
b'lieve  I  shot  it  an'  they  'd  stop  the'  noise  — 
an'  then  I  would  n't  ketch  no  more  —  an'  I 
wouldn't  only  one." 

"  No,  so  ye  would  n't.  Bub,"  said  his  father, 
with  something  of  pity  in  his  voice,  "  nor  the 
fust  one  nuther.  Boys  al'ays  thinks  they 
can,  but  they  don't  never  "  — 

"  But  I  did  —  'most !  "  Sammy  asserted 
with  some  spirit. 

"Yes,  the  fox  clawed  aout  the  trap  an' 
sprung  it,  an'  eat  up  all  the  bait,  an'  jes'  so 
he  kep'  a-doin',"  said  his  father,  "  an'  that 's 
as  nigh  as  boys  —  an'  most  men  —  gits,  an' 
never  knowin'  what  the  trouble  is." 

"  If  they  can't  ketch  'em,  I  don't  see  what 
hurt  the'  is  in  tryin',"  Sammy  ventured  to 
argue. 


192  SAM'S   BOY 

"  'Cause  it 's  sliowin'  a  mean  dispersition, 
a-tryin'  tu  steal  other  folkses'  fun,"  his 
father  answered ;  "  an'  they  be  mean,  them 
'at  does.  Look  a'  ol'  Ike  Hamner,  sneakin' 
aout  airly  in  October  an'  ketchin'  hul  litters 
'fore  they  're  half  prime,  an'  sp'ilin'  lots  o' 
fun  for  us,  —  for  the'  be  some  'at  knows 
haow,"  Sam  hastened  in  confusion  to  amend 
the  inconsistency  of  his  assertions.  "  But 
the'  hain't  no  boys,  a-touchin'  trap  an'  bait 
an'  all  as  car 'less  as  if  they  was  settin'  skunk 
traps.  You  can't  never  shoot  one  ?  'Sliaw, 
yes,  ye  can  tew.  I  did  n't  kill  the  fust  one  I 
shot  at,  an'  don't  al'ays  naow.  Can't  git  no 
shots  ?  W  hy ,  the'  al'ays  comes  sech  spells 
when  the'  hain't  none  'raound,  but  the'  's  some 
ol'  varmints,  'at  starts  for  Ne'  Hampshir' 
the  fust  hoot  a  haoun'  gives.  You  '11  git 
your  chance  tn  rights,  but  if  ye  don't,  don't 
never  set  no  fox-traps.  Jes'  see  haow  nigh 
you  come  tu  sp'Uin'  Drive's  foot !  S'posin' 
he  'd  got  ketched  way  off  aouten  hearin',  an' 
the  dog  got  hung !  He  'd  tore  his  foot  half 
off  a-tryin'  tu  git  loose,  an'  would  n't  be'n  no 
good  for  tew  months." 

"  Oh,  I  never  thought  o'  that,  daddy,  till 


TRAPPING  193 

jest  as  I  see  Drive  a-pokin'  int'  the  trap," 
Sammy  managed  to  say  between  catches  of 
the  voice,  begotten  of  various  emotions,  to 
one  of  which  he  gave  vigorous  expression  by 
pitching  the  trap  against  the  wall. 

"  Wal,  the'  hain't  no  gTc't  harm  done,  an' 
I  ruther  guess  Bub  won't  set  no  more  fox- 
traps,"  Sam  said,  without  appearing  to  no- 
tice the  act,  and  the  boy's  renunciation  could 
not  have  been  more  assured  by  plighted  w^ord. 

His  father  picked  up  the  trap  carelessly, 
and  the  pair  walked  home  together,  the 
younger,  at  least,  in  great  peace  of  mind. 

It  was  early  in  December  when  signs  of 
the  long-expected  first  snow  began  to  show 
in  the  gradual  misty  fading  of  the  blue  sky 
until  the  rays  of  the  sun  grew  pale  and  short, 
as  it  waned  toward  the  west,  becoming  a 
faint,  blurred  patch,  giving  no  apparent 
warmth  nor  light ;  and  when  it  was  gone,  no 
one  knew  whether  it  was  sundown  but  by 
the  almanac. 

Every  newcomer  to  the  shop  in  turn  pro- 
phesied snow,  until  at  last,  when  Uncle 
Lisha  looked  where  the  invisible  witches  were 
diinking  tea  around  the  glowing  counterfeit 


194  SAM'S  BOY 

of  the  red  stove  draft  under  the  old  apple 
tree,  he  spied  an  unusual  whiteness  gathering 
in  the  corners  of  the  dusty,  cobwebbed  panes, 
and  forthwith  propoimded  a  time-honored 
riddle,  which,  like  aU  its  class,  could  be 
guessed  only  by  those  who  already  knew  it. 

"  Raoun'  the  haouse  an'  raoun'  the  haouse, 
an'  leave  a  white  glove  in  the  winder." 

Every  one  promptly  answered,  "  Snow !  " 

"  Right  you  be,"  Uncle  Lisha  made  con- 
cession, and  some  one  ojDened  the  outer  door 
and  verified  it  by  showing  the  cold,  white 
sparks  wavering  downward  in  the  candle- 
light athwart  the  dusky  jiatch  of  night. 

Sammy  was  all  ears  when  Josej)h  Hill  re- 
marked in  an  inquiring  way,  "  Wal,  Samuel, 
you  '11  'most  hafter  kinder  give  'em  a  try  in 
the  mornin',  if  it  don't  blow  like  Sam  Plill 
or  suthin'  ?  " 

"No,  I  can't  go  tu-morrer,"  Sam  sighed. 
"  I  got  some  fixin'  up  for  winter,  jest  as 
I  al'ays  hev  when  the  fust  snow  comes. 
Sammy  can  go,  though,  if  he  wants  to." 

With  this  comforting  assurance,  the  boy 
curled  up  in  his  favorite  lair  on  the  leather, 
and  finding  little  to  interest  him  in  the  poli- 


TRAPPING  195 

tics  into  which  his  elders  presently  fell,  beset 
Uncle  Lisha  in  whispers  to  "  tell  some  more 
riddles."  This  his  old  friend  was  nothing  loath 
to  do,  as  it  woidd  not  hinder  his  listening  to 
propound  the  unguessable  questions  nor  give 
the  time-worn  answers.  So  he  began  with 
"  Niddy,  noddy,  tew  heads  an'  one  body  ;  " 
and  when  he  thought  Sammy  had  given  it 
enough  unavailing  study,  supplied  the  answer, 
"  A  barrel,"  without  distracting  his  own  at- 
tention. Then,  as  he  kept  one  ear  attentively 
cocked  to  a  criticism  of  the  "  S'lec'men's 
duin's,"  he  delivered  aside,  — 

"  Chic,  Chic,  Cherry,  O, 
All  the  men  in  Derry,  O, 
Can't  climb  Chic,  Cherry,  0," 

and  in  due  time  annoimced  that  "  Cliic, 
Cherry,  O  "  was  no  more  nor  less  than  smoke. 
This  reminded  him  of  his  pipe,  which  he 
sorted  from  among  his  tools  beside  him  and 
began  filling,  while  he  propounded  several 
other  brain -racking  riddles  such  as, 

"  Nitty  crout, 
Netty  crout, 

Wears  a  -white  petticront 
And  a  red  nose ; 
The  longer  she  lives  the  shorter  she  grows," 


196  SAM'S   BOY 

which  Sammy  coiild  not  guess,  though  It  was 
the  candle  before  his  eyes.     Then  followed, 

"  HiU  full, 
A  hole  full, 
You  can't  ketch  a  bowl  full ;  " 

"  Over  the  water, 
Under  the  water, 
Never  teched  the  water," 

and  that  masterpiece  of  poetry  and  mystery, 

"  Chink,  chink. 

Through  the  hrook, 
And  never  stops  to  drink," 

the  solution  of  which  was  a  chain  drasfo'ed 
through  a  brook  by  oxen.  When  Uncle 
Lisha's  stock  was  exhausted  he  suggested 
to  Sammy  the  wisdom  of  going  to  bed  so 
that  he  might  be  up  betimes.  "  It 's  the 
airly  bird  'at  gits  the  worm,  you  know ;  an' 
I  've  heard  your  father  say  time  an'  agin, 
'  An  haour  'fore  sun-up 's  wuth  tew  arter,' 
an'  I  allers  noticed  he  'd  git  up  airher  tu  go 
huntin'  'an  anytliing  else.  The  snow  '11  kiver 
the  shack  ^  on  the  beech  ridges,  an'  mebby 
send  the  fox  daown  inter  the  open  arter  mice, 
so  like  'nougli  you  '11  start  one.  Hope  so. 
Good-night." 

^  Acorns  and  beechnuts. 


TRAPPING  197 

After  a  brave  struggle  Sammy  overcame 
his  boy's  dislike  of  going  to  bed,  and  slowly 
drifted  into  dreamland,  while  he  committed 
the  riddles  to  memory  for  future  use  at 
school,  and  listened  anxiously  for  signs  of 
rising  wind  that  might  come  to  spoil  to-mor- 
row's sport.  There  was  no  warning  sough 
of  chimneys,  nor  soft  swish  of  flakes  against 
the  panes,  —  only  the  slide  and  slump  of  an 
overladen  branch's  burden  upon  the  roof. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FOX    LIFE 

When  tlie  boy  awoke  the  snowfall  was 
over  and  the  earth  asleep  under  its  new 
unruffled  white  covering,  beneath  a  sky  of 
breaking  clouds  and  widening  patches  of 
blue,  where  stars  faded  in  the  growing  day. 

The  kitchen  was  aglow  with  warmth  and 
light,  and  Uncle  Lisha  was  tiiDtoeing  about 
it  in  his  stockings,  in  anxious  quest  of  some 
article  indispensable  to  the  breakfast  his 
unwonted  hands  were  getting. 

"  Good  airth  an'  seas  !  "  he  whispered,  in 
a  blast  that  drove  the  candle  flame  aslant, 
"  what  on  airth  does  the  women  folks  du  wi' 
ev' thing ?  I'd  livser  make  a  pair  o'  boots 
'an  tu  git  a  meal  o'  victuals  arter  'em! 
Guess  I  '11  hafter  raout  aout  Jerushy  jest  tu 
fuid  the  pepper  box  !  " 

But  she  had  already  heard  him,  and  came 
from  the  bedroom  hurriedly,  fumbling  with 


FOX  LIFE  199 

pins  whose  use  was  micomprehended  by  the 
masculine  miud. 

"  Why,  father,  what  be  you  a-tryin'  tu 
du  ?  "  she  asked  in  wonder  at  the  old  man's 
strange  occupation. 

"  A-gettin'  Bub  some  breaMus',  that 's 
what,"  he  answered  testily. 

"  What,  for  this  precious  child  ?  Then 
why  on  airth  didn't  you  call  me  ?  "  she  de- 
manded, resentful  of  such  usurpation  of  her 
rights.  "  Or'nary  men  folks  don't  'pear  tu 
liev  much  knack  o'  gittin'  breakfus'."  Then, 
relenting,  she  hastened  to  concede,  "  But  this 
'ere  warmed-up  'tater  does  look  proper  good, 
father." 

Between  them,  the  boy  was  provided  with 
a  nice  hot  breakfast,  as  the  hound  was  with 
one  as  much  to  his  liking,  and  the  two  went 
forth  to  the  snowy  world.  Familiar  objects 
looked  strange,  their  angles  rounded  in  their 
spotless  new  guise,  but  woodpile,  unhoused 
cart,  the  tenantless  hencoops,  and  the 
scraggy  apple  trees  soon  assumed  recogniz- 
able shapes.  A  track  showed  far  away  on 
the  even  whiteness  of  the  fields,  and  as 
Sammy  looked  beyond  the  dotted  blue  line 


200  SAM'S  BOY 

that  the  hound  was  printing  he  saw  a  daintier 
one  tending-  toward  Hedge  Hog  Hill,  the  old 
vixen's,  no  doubt,  which  he  thought,  in  vexa- 
tion of  spirit,  could  only  lead  to  failure. 
Then  he  remembered  how,  when  she  led 
away  into  the  hills,  she  had  always  a  trick  of 
mounting  two  cross-walls  and  going  back  and 
forth  on  them,  and  giving  the  hounds  a  tangle 
that  usually  ended  the  day's  pursuit  of  her. 
Now  Sammy  bethought  him  that  if  he  could 
but  get  there  before  her  and  ambush  him- 
self, the  long-desired  shot  might  be  obtained. 
He  was  not  in  the  secret  of  the  old  hunt- 
ers, who  woidd  be  loath  indeed  to  have  their 
poultry-breeding  women  folk  know  how  care- 
fully they  spared  the  arch  raider  of  flocks,  — 
he  only  thought  it  the  greater  glory  to  cir- 
cumvent her  cunning.  So,  when  Drive  an- 
nounced the  warmth  of  the  scent  with  a  loud 
and  jubilant  note,  he  made  all  haste  toward 
the  place.  Assured  that  he  was  keej)ing  to 
the  leeward,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  know- 
ing by  the  voice  of  the  hound  that  the  fox 
was  still  veering  away  diagonally,  and  so 
giving  him  more  time  to  reach  the  cross-wall 
first.     Now  he  came  to  the  foot  of  the  long, 


FOX  LIFE  201 

rough  slope,  down  which  one  of  the  walls 
ran.  He  cHmbecl  over  it,  and  began  the 
slippery  ascent,  —  and  how  steep  and  long 
and  slippery  it  was,  as  he  stooped  low  and 
slipped  and  tumbled  along  with  his  last 
breath  almost  spent.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
never  should  get  his  breath  again,  nor  quiet 
the  beating  of  his  heart,  so  that  he  coidd 
hear  the  voice  of  the  hound,  till  he  was  close 
upon  him.  But,  in  spite  of  the  hammering 
of  his  heart,  even  now  he  heard  in  the  dis- 
tance the  swelling  and  falling  cadence  of 
Drive's  tuneful  voice  regularly  drawing 
nearer,  and  now  he  lifted  his  head  cautiously 
above  the  snow-capped  wall,  and  acre  by  acre 
scanned  the  broad  fields.  The  expanse  of 
even  whiteness  was  taking  on  light  and  shade 
and  color  now.  The  growing  dawn  flushed 
the  broken  clouds  with  salmon  tint ;  the 
edges  bordered  the  blue  sky  with  nacreous 
hues.     The  snow  ridges  were  flushed  with 

t 

the  repeated  colors,  while  the  hollows  were 
lined  with  blue.  Then  away  where  the 
bugle-like  notes  were  sounding,  Sammy  de- 
scried a  dark  speck  moving  across  a  ridge, 
and  then  it  disappeared  in  a  hollow,  and  the 


202  SAM'S  BOY 

music  grew  fainter.  A  smaller  speck  came 
into  view  on  a  nearer  crest,  and  that  he 
knew  was  the  fox,  now  circling  on  the  half- 
naked  ground  under  a  group  of  tent-like 
evergreens,  now  taking  a  fence  top,  yet 
surely  drawing  nearer.  When  he  was  once 
assured  of  this,  Sammy's  heart  became  more 
turbulent  than  fast  walking  had  made  it,  and 
was  so  near  choking  him  that  it  seemed  as  if 
he  could  never  live  till  the  fox  came  within 
shot.  On  she  came,  now  no  longer  a  speck, 
now  brush,  now  legs,  now  ears,  defined 
against  the  shining  background,  and  now  far 
down  its  length  she  sj^rang  lightly  to  the  top 
of  one  wall,  half  turned  and  looked  toward 
the  pursuing  hound,  and  then,  with  long 
leaps,  went  down  the  wall  out  of  sight  beyond 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  Was  this  some  varia- 
tion of  her  usual  tricks,  and  was  she  gone 
for  good  and  all  ?  the  boy  asked  himself  with 
a  sinking  heart. 

Two  minutes  went  by  with  not  a  sight  of 
her,  and  he  was  about  climbing  the  wall  for 
a  farewell  look.  But  just  in  the  nick  of  time 
he  saw  her  returning,  running  at  long  leaps 
a  little  distance  from  the  wall  till  she  was 


FOX   LIFE  203 

past  the  place  where  she  first  came  to  it, 
when  she  again  sprang-  to  the  top  of  it  and 
came  picking  her  way  toward  the  fonr  cor- 
ners. Somehow,  for  all  the  fox  returned  so 
suddenly,  the  boy's  heart  did  not  fall  into 
such  a  wild  tumidt  as  before.  When  he 
raised  his  gun  slowly  to  his  cheek  the  muzzle 
did  n't  wobble.  It  was  the  old  she  fox  of 
Hedge  Hog  Hill,  sure  enough ;  her  grizzly 
mask,  her  ears  notched  in  many  a  vidpine 
squabble  were  pricked  intently  to  every 
note  of  the  hound.  Alas  for  her,  that  her 
eyes,  so  expressive  of  cunning,  were  not  look- 
ing further  ahead  to  see  the  danger  that  lay 
crouching  where  she  so  confidently  sought 
safety. 

Now  she  halted  and  half  turned  to  look 
and  hsten  to  that  tireless  baying  hound,  who 
was  soon  to  be  counted  out  of  the  game  when 
she  would  take  her  ease  on  some  fu'-embow- 
ered  rock  of  the  moimtain  steeps.  But  the 
deadly  aim  was  upon  her  even  now  ;  there 
was  a  deafening  noise  in  her  ears  like  a  burst 
of  midsummer  thunder,  and  a  great  cloud  of 
white  smoke  unrolled  upon  her,  in  the  midst 
of  which  she  was  smitten  down  into  the  snow, 


204  SAM'S   BOY 

by  a  deadly  pang  boring  its  way  into  her  side. 
Sammy  did  not  wait  to  climb  the  wall,  but 
tumbled  over  it  pellmell,  taking  the  top  stones 
with  him,  and  scarcely  regaining  his  feet  be- 
fore he  reached  his  victim.  When  he  saw 
her  lying  there  unable  to  rise,  yet  turning  an 
alert  eye  upon  him,  while  her  life's  blood 
was  spending,  his  luck  seemed  too  good  to 
be  true,  and  as  he  slowly  realized  it,  he  was 
ready  to  laugh,  cry,  or  shout  for  joy,  and 
combined  the  three  in  a  sound  so  strange 
that  it  startled  him. 

The  hound  was  drawing  near,  and  as  his 
eager  notes  pierced  the  clouded  senses  of  the 
dying  fox  she  lifted  her  head  and  made  a 
desperate  but  futile  struggle  to  get  to  her 
feet.  Sammy  had  heard  of  foxes  escaping 
even  at  such  a  pass,  and  prudently  set  his 
foot  upon  her  neck ;  but  the  dog  was  upon 
her  in  an  instant,  and  the  boy  withdrew  his 
foot  out  of  danger  without  delay,  whereupon 
the  fox  seized  Drive  by  the  nose,  and  got  one 
last  sweet  morsel  of  revenge,  that  was  duly 
acknowledged  by  a  yell  of  pain  and  rage. 
Then  with  a  savage  crunch  the  life  was 
shaken  out  of  the  gallant  old  vixen. 


FOX  LIFE  205 

There  would  be  no  more  laughing  at  the 
boy,  now  that  he  had  circumvented  the  tricks 
of  this  wary  old  mother  of  freebooters,  with- 
out help  or  advice  from  any  one,  and  for 
whose  death  every  poidtry  breeder  in  Danvis 
would  be  thankful,  nor  could  any  one  say 
this  was  a  chance  shot,  when  the  thickly 
punctured  pelt  would  show  how  true  the  aim 
was.  It  was  glory  enough  for  one  day,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  take  off  the 
skin  and  carry  it  home  in  triumph.  Yet  it 
was  not  to  be  just  so,  for  when  he  went  into 
his  pockets,  lo,  his  knife  was  not  in  any  of 
them  !  So  long  useless,  it  had  been  forgotten. 
So  he  shouldered  the  fox,  and,  with  Drive 
following,  after  a  long  wistful  look  backward 
at  the  wooded  steeps,  set  forth  homeward,  as 
happy  a  boy  as  the  world  held. 

"  Good  airth  an'  seas !  If  this  'ere  boy 
hain't  be'n  an'  gone  an'  killed  a  fox  all  alone 
by  hisself  I  "  cried  Uncle  Lisha,  overwhelmed 
by  surprise,  expressed  in  every  look  and 
motion,  as  he  dropped  tools  and  work,  pushed 
his  spectacles  far  upon  his  forehead,  struggled 
to  his  feet,  and  pranced  wildly  forward  to 
meet  Sammy. 


206  SAM'S   BOY 

The  boy  entered  tlie  shop,  and  proudly 
swinging  the  burden  from  his  shoulder,  re- 
marked in  assumed  indifference,  "  I  forgot 
my  knife,  an'  so  I  had  to  lug  the  crittur  all 
the  way  hum !  I  tell  ye  what,  foxes  is 
heav}^,  come  tu  lug  'em  tew  mild." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  guess  they  be  ;  jes'  as  solid  as 
ol'  pork ;  but  you  was  glad  o'  the  chance  tu 
lug  it,  wa'n't  ye.  Bub  ?  Hev  ye  showed  the 
folks  in  the  haouse  what  ye  done  ?  Jerushy  ! 
Huldy  I  Come  right  here  quick  an'  see  what 
this  boy  's  done  !  " 

His  uproarious  call  brought  the  two  women 
and  Polly  hurrying  to  the  shop,  as  it  might 
all  the  neighborhood  if  it  had  been  weather 
for  open  doors  and  windows,  and  they  purred 
over  the  boy,  and  praised  him  to  his  heart's 
content.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  forgotten 
his  knife,  for  a  whole  fox  was  better  worth 
showing  than  a  mere  skin,  and  was  a  world's 
wonder  to  little  sister.  No  longer  trying 
to  curb  his  exultation,  he  told  excitedly  all 
the  story  of  his  achievement  to  his  audience, 
the  feminine  majority  kindly  making  pretense 
of  interest  in  every  incident. 

"  Why,  for  all  this  livin'  world !  "  cried 


FOX   LIFE  207 

Uncle  Lislia,  finding  f resli  cause  for  surprise 
as  lie  made  a  closer  examination  of  the  fox's 
carcass,  "  if  I  don't  r'al'y  b'lieve  this  'ere  's 
the  ol'  Haidge  Hog  Hill  fox,  —  the  very  same 
ol'  crittur  me  an'  you  was  a-watchin'  play- 
in'  wi'  her  young  uns  when  you  was  a  shaver. 
I  gi'n  her  a  hint  to  look  aout "  —  He 
checked  himself,  for  he  became  aware  that 
he  might  reveal  an  unpleasant  secret  to  the 
womenkind.  "  We  did  n't  think  you  'd  be 
a-killin'  on  her  so  soon.  My!  haow  time 
does  paig  away !  Tu-day  it 's  a  baby's  shoes, 
tu-morrer  a  half-growed  boy's  stogies."  And 
the  old  man  sighed,  thinking  how  his  little 
boy  was  growing  out  of  one  sort  of  camara- 
derie. 

"  Just  lay  your  fox  on  them  hither  scraps 
an'  you  can  skin  it  comf  table,"  he  said,  as 
the  women  withdrew,  and  Sammy,  nothing 
loath  to  accept  such  warm  quarters  for  what 
promised  to  be  a  tedious  job  for  his  inex- 
perienced hands,  sharpened  his  knife  and  set 

about  it. 

"  Poor  ol'  foxey,"  said  Uncle  Lisha,  mus- 
ing over  the  furry  form ;  "  she  won't  raise 
no  more  fam'lies  in  Haidge  Hawg  laidges. 


208  SAM'S  BOY 

an'  I  tell  ye  what,  Bub,  your  fatlier  won't  be 
none  tew  glad  on't,"  lie  added  in  a  lowered 
tone. 

Sammy  thought  it  very  hard  that  some 
would  not  be  suited,  whether  he  killed  a  fox 
or  not. 

"  Wal,  nev'  mind ;  she  can't  be  fetched 
tu  life  naow,"  said  Uncle  Lisha.  "  But  I 
swan,  it  makes  me  feel  kinder  lunsome 
thinkin'  haow  we  shan't  never  see  her  no 
more  a-shoolin'  back  an'  tu  on  this  ar'nt  an' 
that.  A  hard  life  she  's  had  on't,  fust  an' 
last,  but  it  was  her'n,  an'  she  got  the  best 
she  could  aout  on't,  ever  sen'  she  was  a 
leetle  teenty,  tawnty,  peaked  -  tailed  cub 
a-playin'  wi'  her  mammy  an'  mates  up  in  the 
aidge  o'  the  woods  tu  Haidge  Hawg,  afore 
you  was  borned,  raebby." 

"  Oh,  du  you  know  'baout  her,  Uncle 
Lisher?"  Sammy  asked,  hungering  for  one 
of  the  old  stories,  somehow  grown  infrequent 
of  late. 

"  Wal,  I  can  kinder  guess  some,  an'  some  I 
du  know,"  said  the  old  man,  nothing  loath  for 
a  renewal  of  the  old  intercourse,  and  begin- 
ning at  once  at  the  boy's  eager  "  Oh,  tell !  " 


FOX  LIFE  209 

"Wal,  fust  she  knowed  she  opened  her 
eyes  in  a  dark  hole,  snuggled  up  tu  her 
mammy  wi'  lier  brothers  an'  sisters,  an'  then 
it  wa'n't  long  afore  they  was  all  layin'  aout  in 
the  sunshine,  the  grass  beginnin'  tu  grow  an' 
the  fust  birds  come.  An'  then  their  mammy 
was  off  nights,  comin'  hum  airly,  naow  wi' 
a  maou'ful  o'  mice  or  a  rabbit  or  pa'tridge, 
an'  sometimes,  don't  ye  b'lieve,  wi'  a  cat,  an' 
naow  an'  agin  wi'  a  young  skunk,  an' 
caounted  it  proper  good  strong  victuals  ;  an' 
the'  was  mushrat  an'  woo'chuck,  and  I  do' 
know  what  all ;  an'  hjme  by  the  ol'  one 
come  home  mornin's  wi'  a  lamb,  an'  then 
turkeys  an'  chickens,  an'  tu  rights  the'  was 
wings  an'  laigs  an'  feathers  scattered  raoun' 
the  burrer  so  thick  you  couldn't  help 
a-noticin'.  So  someb'dy  did,  an'  't  was  n't 
long  'fore  they  come  for  tu  dig  'em  aout.  The 
ol'  lady  'd  showed  her  young  uns  'at  there 
was  more  'n  one  door  tu  their  haouse,  but 
'stead  o'  runnin'  aout  o'  the  back  door  when 
the  folks  come  to  the  front,  the  leetle  fools 
scatted  clean  int'  the  f urder  chamber,  —  all 
but  this  one  ;  she  run  aout,  'long  wi'  her 
mammy,  an'  she  stood  off  a-barkin'  her  heart 


210  SAM'S   BOY 

aout  tu  see  her  babies  dug  aout  an  kerried 
off  right  afore  her  face  an'  eyes.  They 
wa'n't  killed,  but  took  captive,  an'  gi'n 
raoun'  tu  one  an'  another  an'  chained  up  or 
put  in  a  pen  for  folks  tu  come  an'  gawp  at 
an'  pester. 

"  Tom  Hamlin  had  one  'at  he  put  a  chain 
ontu  an'  lied  a  box  wi'  a  hole  in  the  side  tu 
run  intu,  comf'table  as  you  please,  an'  his 
mammy  useter  go  nights  an'  visit  him  an' 
kerry  him  mice,  an'  I'arn  him  tricks  'at  gi'n 
him  lots  o'  fun.  But  one  on  'em  was  pooty 
nigh  his  ondoin'.  He  scattered  his  crumbs 
wi'in  reach  o'  his  chain,  an'  lay  back  makin' 
b'lieve  he  was  asleep,  a-peekin'  aout'n  the 
corner  o'  one  eye,  till  byme  by  a  fool  of 
a  half-growed  chicken  'Id  come  gawkin' 
raound  a-pickin'  up  crumbs,  an'  fust  he 
knowed  Mr.  Fox  hed  him  an'  he  was  a  spilte 
wruster.  Tom  was  a-goin'  tu  quit  keepin'  a 
wil'  beast  show,  but  his  boy  begged  so  hard 
foxey's  life  was  saved,  but  his  chain  was 
shortened  up  consid'able.  Arter  a  spell  it 
got  a  weak  place  wore  in  it  so  't  the  fox  got 
a  twist  on't  'at  broke  it,  an'  away  he  scooted 
for  the  woods.     The  strap  choked  him  as  his 


FOX  LIFE  211 

neck  growecl,  but  his  mammy  gnawed  it  off 
arter  a  spell,  an'  in  course  o'  time  the  hul 
caboodle  o'  the  litter  got  away  somehaow, 
'ceptin'  one  'at  was  sol'  tu  a  caravan,  an' 
went  a-travelin'  fur  an'  near  an'  see  more 
folks  'an  'most  any  fox  'at  ever  lived.  Wal, 
ol'  Marm  Fox  she  sot  tu  I'arn'n'  her  fani'ly 
haow  tu  git  an  honest  livin'  in  the  woods  an' 
off'm  the  farms  where  the  ol'  women  raised 
poultry  for  'em,  easier  ketched  'an  the  pa'- 
tridge  an'  rabbits  or  half-gi-owed  crows  'at 
lit  raound  liuntin'  grubs,  an'  I'arnt  'em  tu 
take  ujD  wi'  beechnut  an'  acorn  shack  an' 
grasshoppers  when  the'  wa'n't  better,  an'  tu 
look  aout  for  the  smell  of  a  man  whenever 
they  faound  it  as  the  dang'ousest  thing  the' 
was,  an'  tu  go  on  fresh  airth  an'  naked  rock 
an'  ice  tu  hide  the'  own  scent  fi-om  haoun' 
dawgs,  an'  took  'em  over  all  the  I'unways 
wi'in  four  mild.  An'  then  she  turned  'em 
aout  in  the  world  tu  shift  for  the'selves, 
kinder  watchin'  aout  tu  see  haow  they  made 
it. 

"  One  went  right  contr'y  tu  what  she  tol' 
him,  a-foolin'  raoun'  where  the'  was  a  hunk 
o'  skunk  meat  stuck  on  a  stick  aout  in  a 


212  SAM'S   BOY 

puddle  o'  water,  wi'  a  piece  o'  sod  halfway 
aout  from  tlie  bauk  jest  handy  tu  put  a  foot 
on  an'  reach  aout  to  't.  It  smelt  strong  o' 
skunk  an'  mushrat  musk  an'  anise,  an'  the' 
wa'n't  no  smell  o'  human  'baout,  but  it 
looked  kinder  fixed  up,  an'  the  ol'  un  says, 
says  she,  '  You  let  that  'ere  alone  ;  the'  's 
things  'nough  t'  eat  besides  that  'ere.'  But 
he  wus  one  o'  '  your  know-it-alls,'  an'  hed  to 
jest  smell  on't  oncte.  So  he  sot  his  fore  foot 
on  the  sod  an'  reached  aout  so  keerful  he 
knowed  it  couldn't  du  no  hurt,  but  the'  was 
a  snap  an'  a  bile  in  the  water,  an'  his  foot 
was  in  a  grip  as  if  a  mud-turkle  hed  a-holt 
on't. 

"  Back  he  jumped  twicte  his  len'th  an' 
went  a-sprawlin'  on  his  back,  but  for  all  it 
pooty  nigh  pulled  his  laig  off,  the  trap  hung, 
an'  kep'  a-hangin'  for  all  his  yankin'  an' 
squallin',  an'  all  he  could  du  was  drag  the 
hul  bilin',  trap  an'  clog,  along  the  graoun'  till 
it  ketched,  an'  then  yank  an'  work  till  it 
leggo.  He  might  ha'  gnawed  his  foot  off, 
as  his  mammy  tol'  him  tu,  but  he  kep' 
a-wastin'  time,  a-draggin'  an'  a-twitchin'  a  hull 
day,  till  it  was  tew  late,  an'  along  come  a 


FOX  LIFE  213 

man  an'   knocked  him   in   the   head  wi'    a 
hatchet,  so  that  was  the  end  o'  him ! 

"  'T  was  one  way  an'  'nether  wi'  the  rest 
on  'em  —  a-gittin'  hunted  an'  trapped  an' 
steerin'  clear  an'  not,  but  this  'ere  particilar 
one  was  the  cutest  an'  allers  the  f avoryte  wi' 
her  mammy.  She  'd  remember  what  she 
was  tol',  an'  didn't  fool  raoun'  no  traps  ner 
pizen  bait,  —  the'  be  them  'at  pizens  foxes,  — 
an'  the  fust  time  a  haoun'  got  arter  her 
she  played  him  some  pooty  smart  capers. 
She  run  in  a  dusty  rhud,  an'  through  a  flock 
o'  sheep,  an'  top  o'  fences,  an'  fuially  bothered 
him  so  on  a  windy  laidge  'at  he  gin  it  up. 
But  one  time  aour  ol'  Drive  got  arter  her  an' 
gin  her  a  tough  one.  Try  what  she  would, 
sheep,  or  fences,  or  plaowed  land,  or  laidges, 
or  ice,  he  'd  stick  tu  her  ju'  like  teazles,  a-cir- 
cling  till  he  hit  her  track  on  good  foUerin' 
an'  sent  her  skivin'  tiU  she  was  nigh  about 
tuckered,  an'  then  her  mammy  come  an' 
mixed  her  track  aU  up  wi'  the  young  un's  so 
the  ol'  dawg  got  off  arter  the  ol'  one,  a  thing- 
he  did  n't  often  do,  an'  she  led  him  a  wil'- 
goose  chase  over  sheep  paths  an'  laidges  till 
she  was  so  fur  ahead,  his  voice  was  lunsome 


214  SAM'S  BOY 


as  a  bluebird's  song  in  the  fall.  When  she 
could  n't  sca'cely  hear  it,  she  put  her  cross 
lots  for  the  niaountin  lickety-rip  up  a  gully 
an'  up  the  bank  on't,  not  thinkin'  nobody 
wi'in  milds,  when,  kerslap,  she  come  outer 
a  man,  which  it  was  your  father,  of  all  men 
in  the  world !  She  stopped  so  quick  she 
nigh  abaout  keeled  over,  an'  then  turned  tail 
an'  skinned  for  su'thin'  tu  git  behind,  —  a 
tree,  or  stump,  or  rock,  — but  the'  wa'n't  none 
for  rods  an'  rods.  An'  so  as  she  was  layin' 
herself  stret,  wi'  her  ears  clus  tu  her  head  an' 
her  tail  the  size  o'  your  laig.  Whang !  went 
the  ol'  gun  behind  her  an'  daown  she  went 
wi'  a  broken  hip. 

"  The  man  was  halfway  tu  her  afore  she 
could  gather  ;  but  when  she  did,  her  three 
laigs  was  tew  many  for  his  tew,  for  all  the 
mis'able  broken  one  a-floppin'  loose  an'  achin' 
wus  'n  forty  teethaches,  an'  she  got  tu  the 
woods  afore  he  could  load  arrunnin',  an'  then 
p'inted  for  a  hole  she  knowed  on.  It  run 
'way  back  'n'  under  a  big  rock,  so  the'  wa'n't 
no  sech  a  thing  as  diggin'  on  her  aout,  which 
your  father  was  turrible  sorry  'baout.  Your 
father  stojjped  the  hole,  an'  went  an'  got  a 


FOX   LIFE  215 

trap,  an'  sot  it  tu  ketch  her  when  she  tried 
tu  come  aout  "  — 

"  What !  "  cried  Sammy,  all  agape  with 
surprise,  "  my  daddy  set  a  trap  for  a  fox  ?  I 
don't  b'lieve  it. " 

"  Why,  yes,  Bub,  when  one  was  waounded 
so  an'  sufferin',  but  not  no  other  ways.  Wal, 
when  he  went  tu  look  at  it  two  three  days 
arter,  she  hed  n't  be'n  anigh  the  trap,  an'  when 
he  s'arched  all  raound  the  laidge  for  another 
hole,  he  faound  a  narrer  crack  wi'  some  mice 
poked  into  't.  Yes,  sir,  this  'ere  young  un 
had  be'n  an'  gone  an'  took  feed  tu  her  ol'  dis- 
tressed mammy,  jest  as  duterful  as  a  humern, 
—  yes,  more  'n  some,"  and  the  old  man 
sighed. 

"  He  hated  tu,  but  he  stopped  up  that 
place,  an'  pooty  soon  ketched  the  ol'  un  as 
nigh  dead  as  alive.  AVal,  this  un  was  all 
alone  in  the  world  wi'aout  kith  or  kin,  an' 
lunsome  enough,  but  she  come  o'  that,  as 
foxes  an'  mortals  du,  an'  enjoyed  life  a-scoot- 
in'  raound  in  the  woods  huntin'  pa'tridge 
an'  rabbits  as  her  marm  had  I'arnt  her.  But 
it  was  the  biggest  fun  in  spring  when  the 
voung  lambs  come,   tu  cut  intu  a  flock   o' 


216  SAM'S   BOY 

gre't  big  ewes  an'  kerry  off  a  lamb  'most  as 
heavy  as  herself. 

"  Or  in  summer  tu  find  a  flock  of  half- 
growecl  turkeys  strayin'  raound  the  lots  an' 
kill  beyund  all  reason  ten  times  more  'n  she 
an'  all  her  fam'ly  could  eat,  —  for  she  hed 
her  a  fam'ly  then.  Like  'nough  't  would  be 
right  in  sight  of  a  haouse,  wi'  an'  ol'  womern 
lookin'  on,  rarin'  an'  tarin'  an'  siccin'  the  dawg 
on,  whilst  Mis'  Foxey  slewed  'em  right  an'  left, 
an'  then  slung  one  over  her  shoulder  an'  off 
int'  the  woods  afore  the  dawg  got  halfway. 
That  was  fun  alive  tu  see  the  turkeys  a-flut- 
terin'  an'  flyin'  an'  yelpin',  an'  't  was  payin' 
the  folks  for  killin'  the  foxes  off,  an'  't  wa'n't 
no  worse  for  her  'an  for  them,  for  they  all 
done  it  come  fall,  an'  she  knowed  she  kiUed 
mice  enough  tu  pay  for  all  she  took.  But 
it  wa'n't  the  way  they  looked  at  it. 

"  The  way  of  her  hevin'  a  fam'ly  was, 
when  it  come  pleasant  nights  in  February, 
the  moon  shinin'  so  't  the  snow  looked  whiter 
'n  it  does  in  sunshine,  an'  the  shadders  so  blue 
they  was  'most  black,  the'  come  a  harnsome 
young  fox  a-caperin'  raoimd  her  on  the  eends 
o'  his  toes   an'   his  tail  a-stickin'   up  like  a 


FOX  LIFE  217 

rauster's.  His  fur  was  as  red  as  a  cherry 
an'  his  tail  as  big  as  your  laig,  —  gosh,  yes, 
mine,  —  an'  a  wliite  tip  on't  six  inches  long. 
He  jest  put  his  best  foot  for'ard  for  her,  an' 
she  could  n't  stir  a  rod  'at  he  wa'n't  with  her, 
an'  the  eend  on't  was  they  was  merried. 
They  lived  here  an'  there,  a-sleepiu'  in  plea- 
sant nights  on  a  snow-kivered  rock  or  stump 
or  a  nest  o'  wild  grass,  wi'  one  ear  cocked 
for'ard  and  t'other  back'ard  an'  noses  sot  for 
any  scent  the  wind  might  kerry.  AVhen  the' 
come  a-rippin'  ol'  storm  they  'd  git  intu  a  den 
or  burrer  an'  weather  it  aout  snug  as  a  flea 
in  a  blanket. 

"  Come  spring  they  cleaned  aout  an  ol' 
burrer  tu  Ilaidge  Hawg  Hill  an'  went  tu 
haousekeepin'  in  airnest,  an'  nex'  thing  the' 
was  four  baby  foxes.  Tew  on  'em  was  ju' 
like  or'nary  fox  babies,  but  one  was  mos' 
black,  an'  'nother  a  measly  lookin'  little  runt 
wi'  hair  as  if  he  'd  be'n  singed.  But  his 
marm  sot  jest  as  much  by  him  as  she  did 
t'others,  an'  when  it  come  tu  feedin'  on  'em 
mice  an'  sech,  she  see  't  he  had  his  full  sheer. 
If  he  'd  ha'  growed  up  he  would  n't  never 
looked  no  better,  for  he  was  what  they  caU  a 


218  SAM'S   BOY 

Samson  fox,  the  idee  bein',  I  s'pose,  'at  they 
come  down  from  them  'at  Samson  sot  fire  tu 
an'  le'  go  in  the  Philistynes'  cornfiel's,  a  tur- 
rible  cur'ous  way  o'  burnin'  on't,  it  al'ays 
'peared  tu  me.  Hunters  shoot  'em  when  they 
come  along",  but  they  hain't  sca'cely  wuth 
skiunin'.  But  he  never  growed  up.  One 
moonlight  night  the  fam'ly  was  loafin'  aou'- 
door  arsnappin'  at  May  bugs  'at  was  a-blun- 
derin'  'raound,  when  the'  come  a  shadder,  an' 
clust  behind  it,  wi'aout  no  more  n'ise,  a  big- 
headed,  long-eared  ol'  hoot  aowl  an'  grabbed 
poor  leetle  Samson  an'  off  wi'  him  like  a 
evil  sperit.  Mis'  Fox  run  arter  him,  a-bark- 
in'  an'  squallin',  but  that  was  all  she  could 
du,  an'  the  last  she  ever  see  o'  poor  leetle 
Samson,  'ceptin'  a  few  bones  an'  wapse  o' 
his  fraowzly  fur.  She  felt  jest  as  bad  for 
him  as  if  he  'd  be'n  her  biggest  an'  harnsomest. 
When  that  one  got  growed  up  he  was  harn- 
some,  I  tell  ye.  His  sides  was  gray  an'  a 
black  stripe  run  daown  his  back  wi'  another 
acrost  the  shoulders,  an'  his  tail  black  wi'  a 
white  tip  to  't.  He  was  what  they  call  a 
cross  fox,  not  on  'caount  o'  bein'  uglier  'n 
or'nary  ones,  but  o"  the  cross  on  the  back. 


FOX  LIFE  219 

A  sort  o'  come-by-chance  tliey  be,  sca'ce  as 
they  be,  an'  wuth  three  four  times  as  much 
as  the  reds.  So  when  this  chap  got  big 
'nough  tu  go  wanderiu'  an'  seen  o'  men  he 
was  sometimes  took  for  a  black  or  a  silver 
gray,  wuth  ever  so  much  more,  an'  every 
himter  was  arter  him  hot-footed  afore  he  got 
prime,  an'  the'  was  traps  gapin'  for  him  sot 
by  folks  'at  never  sot  a  trap  afore." 

"Did  my  daddy?"  Sammy  asked,  half 
fearing  a  fall  for  his  idol. 

"  No,  indeedy,  not  he  !  "  Uncle  Lisha  an- 
swered very  decidedly.  "  But  liim  an'  ol' 
Drive  was  arter  that  fox  airly  an'  late. 
Your  dad  would  take  the  dawg  off  at  dark, 
an'  Mr.  Fox  'd  lay  up  for  the  night,  hopin' 
he  'd  got  red  on  'em.  But  it  would  n't  more 
'n  come  daylight  afore  't  was  up  an'  at  it 
agin  wi'  ol'  Drive  hootin'  on  his  track. 

"  So  wi'  dodgin'  runways  here  and  run- 
ways there,  an'  tryin'  ol'  tricks  an'  new,  he 
come  tu  be  sharp  as  a  sewin'  awl,  an'  the 
cutest  chap  a-goin'.  Lord,  haow  praoud  his 
mammy  was  tu  see  him  foolin'  Sam  Lovel  an' 
ol'  Drive  day  arter  day  an'  then  year  arter 
year,  till  the  ol'  dawg  died  an'  a  new  one 


220  SAM'S  BOY 

come.  T'other  tew  cubs  went  off  one  wa.y 
an'  'nother,  an'  many  a  litter  'at  come  arter, 
an'  time  an'  agin  she  was  left  mournin',  yet 
this  feller  hel'  on  ju'  like  a  witch. 

"  One  day  the  ol'  lady  heard  haoun's  run- 
nin',  an'  knowed  by  the  twistin'  an'  turnin' 
an'  gittin'  bothered  that  her  Crossy  was 
a-leadin'  on  'em.  She  cal'lated  where  he  'd 
p'int  for  tu  lay  up  when  he  'd  got  fur  'nough 
ahead,  an'  mawged  off  that  way  tu  hev  a  visit. 
Byrne  by  the  haoun's  was  n't  barkin'  oncte 
in  half  an  hour,  an'  thinks,  says  she,  he 's  all 
right,  an'  then  she  hear  a  gun  roar  in  the 
woods  pooty  near  the  line  he  'd  come.  She  lis- 
tened an'  heard  someb'dy  callin'  dawgs,  an' 
then  nothin'  more  till  they  bu'st  aout  fresh  a 
minute,  an'  then  shet  up  as  sudden.  Then 
her  heart  misgi'n  her.  Arter  lis'nin'  a  long 
spell  she  went  on  again  keerful,  hopin'  the 
best,  but  at  last  she  smelt  fox  an'  humern  an' 
dawg  all  mixt,  an'  come  tu  some  blood  an'  a 
bunch  o'  black  an'  gray  fur,  an'  seen  a  kar- 
kis  hangin'  in  a  crotch,  an'  then  she  knowed 
the  pride  o'  her  heart  was  gone. 

"  It  wa'n't  no  use  o'  tryin'  tu  escape  it ; 
death  was  a-layin'  in  wait  for  her  an'  her'n 


FOX  LIFE  221 

when  an'  where  they  was  least  expectin'  on't. 
An'  so  it  come  her  turn  at  last,  right  where 
she  'cl  fooled  the  haoun's  a  hnnderd  times, 
an'  wi'  her  dyin'  eyes  she  seen  't  was  nothin' 
but  a  boy  'at  done  it ;  one  'at  she  'd  thought 
she  could  fool  any  time.  Mebby  she  thought 
what  turrible  critturs  these  men  folks  was 
when  the  young  uns  could  du  for  the  oldest 
experiencest  foxes,  an'  mebby  she  wondered 
why  the  world  wa'n't  wide  'nough  for  both 
tu  live  in  wi'aout  them  big  critturs  etarnally 
parsecutin'  the  small  uns  an'  thought  what 
a  pleasant  place  't  would  be  if  it  only  was. 

"  But  she  'd  come  tu  the  eend  on't,  plea- 
sure, trouble,  an'  all,  an'  you  an'  me  won't 
hev  no  more  fun  watehin'  her  an'  her  young 
uns.  Ta'  keer.  Bub,  you  don't  cut  that  ear 
off  tew  long  an'  spile  the  looks  o'  the  pelt." 

"  Oh,  dear.  Uncle  Lisher,  I  'most  wish  I 
hed  n't  shot  her !  "  Sanmiy  cried  out  in 
contrition  of  spirit. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ANTOINE 

Sammy  did  not  continue  contrite  very- 
long.  The  praise  that  he  got  was  more  than 
enough  to  soothe  any  pangs  of  remorse  that 
were  raised  by  Uncle  Lisha's  story  of  the 
life  he  had  taken.  It  came  from  almost 
every  one,  and  ahnost  unstinted.  Even  his 
Grandmother  Puruigton  went  so  far  as  to 
say:  — 

"  That  'ere  boy  lies  done  suthin'  wuth 
while  for  oncte  which  the  men  could  n't  or 
woiddn't  du,"  then  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and 
had  recourse  to  her  smelling  bottle  ;  "  but 
it  '11  be  a  massy  if  it  don't  finish  spilin'  on 
him,  an'  set  him  trampoosin'  fur  an'  near, 
wi'  a  gun  an'  a  haoun'  dawg,  the  hul  indur- 
in'  time." 

His  father  looked  somewhat  chapfaUen 
when  he  learned  the  identity  of  Sammy's 
victim,  but  comijlimented  him  generously  on 


ANTOINE  223 

his  sharpness  in  forestalling  her  tricks. 
"  An'  did  n't  I  tell  ye  you  'd  git  youi-  shot 
when  the  time  come  ?  " 

Gran'ther  Hill  hailed  him  from  the  win- 
dow to  repeat  what  he  had  long  ago  foretold, 
that  he  would  one  day  make  a  keen  fox- 
hunter.  Mrs.  Hill  rejoiced  that  a  new  de- 
fender of  her  poultry  had  arisen,  and  best 
of  all  the  pretty  face  of  his  sweetheart  was 
wreathed  with  a  proud  and  happy  smile. 

Whenever  he  stopped  at  a  house  where 
he  was  known  for  a  drink  of  water  when  he 
was  hunting,  the  fame  of  his  exploit  had 
gone  before  him,  and  the  goodwife  was  sure 
to  offer  doughnuts  and  cheese  to  the  protector 
of  poultry  yards.  Old  fox-hunters  conde- 
scended to  talk  to  him  of  hounds  and  foxes, 
and  treated  him  as  an  entered  apprentice  of 
the  craft.     But  Antoine  was  incorrigible. 

"  Ah  'U  hear  'em  said,  some  of  it,  dat  fox 
you  '11  gat  hees  skm  of  it,  was  be  so  hoi'  he  '11 
jes'  gat  ready  for  dead  for  hoi',  an'  fall  off  de 
walls  an'  keel  he'se'f.  Den  some  of  it  said, 
de  fox  was  be  so  scare  of  de  nowse  de  gawn 
mek  rairht  in  hees  face  of  it,  he  '11  had  some 
kan'  o'  fit  in  hees  heart  an'  come  dead  so. 


224  SAM'S  BOY 

Naow,  you  tol'  me  de  way  he  was,  Bawb. 
Ah  '11  an't  tol'  somebody,  me." 

"  You  can  go  an'  look  o'  the  shot  marks 
in  the  pelt  if  you  want  tu  find  aout,"  Sammy 
answered  testily. 

"•  Poll !  Dat  an't  not'ing,"  Antoine  scoffed. 
"  You  coidd  shot  it  jes'  well  hafter  hees  dead 
as  'fore.  Oh,  All  '11  de  boy  for  keel  de  fox 
w'en  Ah  leave  in  Canada,  jes'  wid  club. 
Ah  '11  see  fox  on  de  lot,  hunt  some  mices, 
den  Ah  '11  hid  mase'f  behin'  stump  an'  skreek 
jes'  lak  mices,  '  Speep  !  Speep  !  '"  —  draw- 
ing in  his  breath  between  his  compressed 
lips,  —  "  an'  dat  foxes  he  '11  stick  his  ear  an' 
come  raght  where  Ah  '11  be,  an'  Ah  '11  stroke 
it  wid  club  !  Yas,  sah,  Bawb !  An'  Ah  '11 
do  dat  two  tree  tam,  me.  Den  one  tarn 
Ah  '11  skreek  so  preffic  Ah  '11  fool  de  fox  so 
bad,  he  '11  come  jomp  raght  hover  de  stomp 
an'  touch  hoi'  mail  back  neck  an'  an't  le'  go 
'fore  Ah  '11  hoUer  lak  loons.  'F  you  'U  an't 
b'leeve  dat,  you  look  dat  scars.  What  you 
t'ink  for  dat,  liein  ?  " 

A  convenient  cicatrix  left  by  a  boil  of  long 
ago  furnished  a  confirmation  of  the  story, 
yet  Sammy  was  incredulous  and  asked  rather 


ANTOINE  225 

impudently,  "  Which  is  the  biggest  fools  in 
Canada,  the  folks  oi-  the  foxes  ?  " 

"  You  sassy  leetly  causs  I  "  Antoine  cried, 
in  a  towering  rage.  "  You  t'ink  de  peop'  in 
Canada  an't  know  some  more  as  you  damn 
Yankee?" 

"  No,  they  don't !  "  Sammy  stoutly  as- 
serted, loyal  to  his  own  people. 

"■  Bah  gosh,  den  Ah  leek  you  for  show  you 
de  Canada  mans  he  an't  rembler  so  much 
every  day  as  de  Yankee  mans  know  all  hees 
laf-tam  ! "  And  with  that  he  advanced  in  a 
series  of  short  jumps,  seeming  to  lift  liimself 
by  the  baggy  seat  of  his  trousers,  and  utter- 
inir  a  frightful  roar  from  his  disturbed  and 
violently  shaken  visage. 

He  cut  such  an  absurd  figure  that  at  first 
Sannuy  thought  it  all  a  joke,  but  a  second 
look  at  Antoine's  face  convinced  him  that  his 
wrath  was  genuine.  Though  frightened, 
Sammy  was  of  no  mind  to  run,  but  backed 
away  from  his  assailant,  searching  the  ground 
ont  of  the  tail  of  an  eye  for  some  means  of 
defense.  Presently  he  discovered  the  boy's 
natural  weapon,  a  stone,  and  laying  hold  of 
it  stood  at  bay,  and  at  once  felt  strengthened. 


226  SAM'S   BOY 

"  Naow,  don't  you  come  a-iiigh  me,  Mr. 
Antoine,"  he  said. 

Antoine  executed  another  series  of  leaps 
without  advancing,  and  roared  more  terribly, 
but  Sammy  stood  his  ground  with  his  weapon 
at  a  ready,  whereupon  the  expression  of  the 
Canadian's  face  changed  from  intense  wrath 
to  a  blank,  then  to  one  of  astonislunent,  and 
then  began  slowly  to  widen  into  an  intended 
expression  of  mirthfuhiess,  but  it  was  a 
mournful  failure.  A  little  beyond  him 
Sannny  caught  fleeting  glimpses  of  a  faded 
fur  cap  showing  and  hiding  behind  a  scrawny 
thicket  of  wild  plums  in  a  roadside  fence 
corner.  The  old  cap  had  a  familiar  individ- 
uality, and  beneath  its  torn  and  notched 
visor  shone  a  pair  of  honest,  kindly  eyes 
watching  every  motion  of  Antoine.  . 

"  Ho  !  Ho  !  Ho  !  Ho  !  "  Antoine  roared 
hilariously.  "  What  hailed  you,  Bawb  ?  An't 
you  t'ink  Ah  '11  was  jes'  in  funs  ?  You  t'ink 
Ah  '11  mad  ?  You  an't  t'ink  Ah  '11  wan'  hurt 
you,  don't  you  ?  Bah  gosh !  Ah  '11  lak  you 
fader  sem  Am  do  mah  brudder.  An'  all  hees 
fam'ly,  bah  gosh,  too !  T'row  dawn  you 
stone,  mah  boy,  t'row  him  dawn." 


ANTOINE  227 

Sammy  hesitated,  not  quite  convinced  by 
Antoine's  friendly  declarations  of  the  ex- 
pediency of  disarming-  himself.  Just  then 
the  old  fur  cap  with  Pelatiah  Gove  under  it 
walked  from  behind  the  plum-tree  thicket 
and  lounged  into  the  road. 

"  HeUo,  Antoine  I  "  he  drawled  ;  "  you  an' 
Sammy  hevin'  a  argerment  this  mornin'  ?  " 

The  Canadian  wheeled  about  quickly, 
quite  taken  by  surprise,  and  Sammy  quietly 
dropped  the  stone. 

"  Gosh  a'maghty,  Peltare,  you  mos'  scare 
me  !  "  cried  the  first,  violently  exhaling  the 
words.  "  Ah  '11  an't  know  you  was  in  four 
mile,  me." 

"  I  p'sume  likely,"  said  Pelatiah.  "  You 
was  makin'  consid'able  noise  one  spell." 

"  Gosh  !  You  hear  me  ? "  Antoine 
laughed,  apparently  much  amused.  "  Ah  '11 
was  jes'  try  for  had  leetly  funs  wid  de  boy 
'baout  hees  fox." 

"  Gol,  is  that  all  ?  I  cal'lated  by  the  noise 
you  made  you  was  hevin'  one  o'  them  mad 
fits  o'  yourn,"  said  Pelatiah  demurely. 

"  Bah  gosh  !  'F  you  '11  ever  see  me  w'en 
Ah  '11  mad  Ah  guess  you  '11  an't  t'ink  so !  " 


228  SAM'S   BOY 

said  Antoine,  with  a  scornful  laugh  and  a 
terribly  fierce  look.  "  Four  mans  can'  hoi' 
me,  an'  mak  holler  shook  de  winder !  All  '11 
was  honly  w'isper  distance.  Say,  Peltai'e, 
Sammy  pooty  smart  boy  for  keel  dat  hoi' 
fox  all  'lone,  All  tol'  you,  hein  ?  He  '11  goin' 
mek  jes'  such  mans  lak  hees  fader." 

"  He  '11  make  a  good  one,  then,"  said 
Pelatiah,  "  'most  as  good  as  they  make  'em  in 
Canerdy.  Come,  Bub,  be  you  goin'  towards 
hum  ?  I  was  goin'  tu  git  a  leetle  job  done  tu 
Uncle  Lisher's,"  and  with  that  they  parted 
company  with  Antoine,  who  henceforth  sjioke 
only  in  jjraise  of  Sammy's  exploits. 

"  My,  I  was  scairt !  "  said  Sammy,  exlial- 
ing  a  long-drawn  breath  when  out  of  earshot. 
"  I  s'pected  he  was  goin'  tu  give  me  a 
hidin'." 

"  Wal,  he  would  n't  ha'.  I  was  a-watchin' 
on  him  from  behind  the  bushes,"  said  Pela- 
tiah meekly. 

"  You  was  ?     Oh,  Peltier  "  — 

"  You  was  right  'long  as  you  kep'  holt  o' 
your  stun,  only  I  was  'feard  you  'd  drop  it 
when  he  begin  a  soft-sawd'rin',  an'  so  I 
come  aout." 


ANTOINE  229 

They  plodded  on  in  silence  tiU  they  came 
to  the  shop.  When  Sammy  was  absent 
from  it,  Pelatiah  entertained  Uncle  Lisha 
with  the  morning's  adventure  while  the  old 
man  sewed  up  a  ripped  seam  of  his  bootleg. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    SCHOOLMASTER 

Winter  scliool  was  in  session  again  with 
Mr.  Miimpson  in  his  accustomed  place,  and 
the  families  of  the  district  impatiently  wait- 
ing their  turn  to  board  the  favorite  teacher, 
who  never  found  fault  with  fare  or  accom- 
modations, and  was  always  on  the  friendliest 
terms  with  liis  entertainers. 

Now  he  was  lodged  for  a  fortnight  at 
Joseph  Hill's,  whose  good  wife  was  exercis- 
ing her  culinary  skill  to  the  utmost  for  his 
sake,  and  every  member  of  the  household 
doing  the  best  to  make  his  sojourn  pleasant. 
When  the  family  was  fairly  seated  at  the 
bountiful  supper,  the  patriarch  never  failed 
to  ask :  — 

"  Wal,  schoolmaster,  haow  many  hckin's 
hev  you  gi'n  these  'ere  young  uns  to-day  ?  " 

Mr.  Mumpson,  clearing  his  throat,  would 
answer  apologetically,     "Why,  the  fact  is, 


THE    SCHOOLMASTER  231 

Captain  Hill,  they  've  all  behaved  so  uncom- 
monly well  that  I  have  n't  been  obhged  to 
chastise  any  one  to-day." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  the  veteran  cried,  with 
hands  uplifted,  "  ahul  day  an'  naryalickin'. 
That  wa'n't  the  way  we  useter  I'arn  young 
uns  in  my  time.  When  I  kep'  school  I  hed 
me  a  good  blue  beech  gad  handy,  an'  I  used 
it  tew,  an'  I  tell  ye  the'  's  nothin'  tu  beat 
blue  beech  for  tu  make  a  young  un  remem- 
ber his  lesson.  Why,  when  the  country  was 
new  an'  all  woods,  a  man  'Id  take  his  boys 
tu  the  corner  trees  of  his  lot  an'  tie  'em  up 
tu  'em  an'  give  'em  an  almighty  good  hidin' 
wi'  a  blue  beech,  an'  I  tell  ye  what,  they 
would  n't  never  forgit  them  corners." 

"  I  should  think  they  would  be  likely  to 
remember,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Jes'  so,  an'  jes'  the  same  it  '11  make  a 
boy  remember  the  lessons  he  I'arns  aout'n 
books.  It  'Id  help  aour  Bub  an'  Ben  amazin' 
if  you  trim  'em  aout'baout  every  other  day." 
He  glowered  upon  the  boys,  who  cautiously 
raised  theur  eyes  from  their  2)lates  enough  to 
see  that  the  fierceness  of  his  glance  was 
temj)ered  by  a  mirthful  twinkle  of  the  deep- 


232  SAM'S  BOY 

set  gray  orbs  that  shone  so  keen  beneath  the 
overhanging  brows  that  Mr.  Munipson, 
given  to  poetic  imagery,  likened  them  to 
ambushed  sharpshooters.  The  boys  were 
thankful  that  their  school  days  had  not  fallen 
within  the  harsh  sway  of  their  grandfather. 
The  veteran  was  very  fond  of  the  school- 
master, and  the  two  got  on  excellently,  not- 
withstanding Gran'ther's  harsh  criticism  of 
modern  modes  of  education. 

"  What 's  the  good  o'  this  'ere  Matthew 
Mattick's  tarnal  books  ? "  he  demanded. 
"  He  hedn't  got  'em  made  when  I  was  goin' 
tu  school,  nor  yet  a-keepin',  —  do'  know  as 
he  was  borned  as  he  never  'd  orter  be'n,  an' 
we  got  along  jest  ezackly  as  well  —  an'  then 
this  'ere  grammer.     What  is  it  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  Captain  Hill,  grammar  teaches  us 
to  speak  and  write  correctly." 

"  Oh,  thunder,  we  spoke  an'  writ  so  't  we 
understood  one  'nother,  an'  what  more  d'  ye 
want?  I  tell  ye,  they're  all  flummadiddle, 
your  grammer  an'  your  Matthew  Mattick 
an'  your  square-rhut.  Square-rhuts  be 
cussed!  Raound  rhuts  is  good  'nough  for 
or'nary    folks !     In    my    time    we    I'arned 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER  233 

readin'  au'  writin'  an'  'ritlimertic,  an'  if  a 
feller  ciphered  as  fur  as  the  rule  o'  three,  he 
was  king-pin.  More  'n  them  would  n't  ha' 
helped  us  none  'baout  choppin'  an'  loggin', 
an'  squabblin'  wi'  Yorkers,  an'  fightin' 
Injuns  an'  Britishers,  —  no,  no,  not  a  sou- 
markee !  But  what  I  shoidd  like  to  know 
is,  what  on  this  livin'  airth  you,  yourself,  be 
everlastin'ly  a-studyin'  an'  a-readin'  that  'ere 
consarned  Latin  lingo  for  every  identical 
night.  Be  you  expectin'  for  tu  go  a-mission- 
aryin'  amongst  them  Latin  critturs  ?  Would 
n't  they  eat  ye,  suppose  ?  "  he  added,  glan- 
cing* at  the  master's  lean  figure. 

The  young  man  had  pleasanter  intercourse 
with  his  aged  host  when,  settled  for  the  long 
evening  in  his  armchair  with  his  pipe  alight, 
he  told  of  the  bitter  feud  of  the  Green 
Mountain  Boys  and  New  York  land  specu- 
lators, of  scouts  and  battles  in  which  he  had 
borne  j^art,  or  rejieated,  as  he  had  heard  them 
told  by  actors  and  eyewitnesses,  the  bloody 
tragedies  of  the  old  French  war,  whereof 
the  schoohnaster  made  careful  and  copious 
notes  with  a  view  to  future  use  in  his  pro- 
jected "  Early  History  of  Vermont."     His 


234  SAM'S  BOY 

finger  slipped  from  its  place  in  the  shut  vol- 
ume of  the  Iliad,  and  he  forgot  the  battles 
of  Greeks  and  Trojans  as  he  listened,  with 
pride  swelling  his  heart,  to  the  unsung  heroic 
deeds  of  his  own  humble  ancestors. 

One  evening  during  the  season  of  wait- 
ing their  turn  to  entertain  the  master,  the 
Lovel  household  was  at  supper  with  the  ad- 
dition of  Polly  Purington  to  the  number. 
Polly  had  the  jarivileges  of  a  member  of  the 
family,  and  ran  in  at  meal  time  with  perfect 
fi-eedom  if  it  suited  her  convenience.  Per- 
haps this  was  more  than  usually  the  case 
now  that  there  was  a  "  spelling  school  "  that 
night. 

"  Oh,  Sammy  Lovel !  "  she  cried,  shaking 
her  knife  at  her  nephew  after  buttering  a 
half  of  one  of  Huldah's  buttermilk  biscuits, 
fleece-white  and  fleece-light  in  spite  of  the 
much-abused  pearlash,  and  overlaying  it  with 
the  honey  of  Sam's  wild  bees,  "  if  you  did  n't 
make  me  ashamed  the  way  you  got  your 
'rithmatic  lesson  to-day  !  " 

The  boy's  face  blazed  red  hot  with  shame 
at  having  his  shortcomings  so  rutlilessly  ex- 
posed, and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  retaliate 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER  235 

by  a  sharp  thrust  in  the  only  explanation  he 
could  give :  "  I  don't  care.  They  're  awful 
hard  sums !  Mebby  'f  I  hed  souieb'dy  tu 
set  by  me  an'  show  me  half  the  time,  I  —  I  'd 
be  smart  at  figures." 

"Why,  Sammy,  who  does?"  his  mother 
asked. 

"  You  ask  Aun'  PoUy,"  he  answered, 
casting  a  vindictive  glance  at  his  buxom 
young  aunt,  whose  cheeks  began  to  outburn 
his  own.     "  I  don't  tell  tales  out  o'  school !  " 

Little  PoUy  had  no  scruples  when  so  good 
an  opportunity  was  given,  and  piped  up 
shrilly  and  eagerly :  "  Oh,  I  know  who !  It 's 
Mr.  Mumpson !  Every  time  Aun'  PoUy 
gits  stuck,  Jie  goes  an'  sets  by  her  an'  splains 
an'  splains." 

"  What  be  you  young  uns  talkin'  about  ?  " 
said  Polly  Purington,  her  eyes  flashing  angiy 
glances  upon  her  nephew  and  niece.  "  Mr. 
Mumpson  don't  show  me  no  more  'n  he  does 
anyb'dy." 

"  Ah,  ha.  Miss  Polly !  So  that 's  the  way 
the  cat  jumps,  is  it?"  said  Sam,  looking  at 
his  sister-in-law  with  a  quizzical  expression 
on  his  surprised  face. 


236  SAM'S   BOY 

"  I  don't  care,  it  hain't  no  secli  a  thing  !  " 
she  cried,  jpouting-. 

"  No,  you  don't  look  as  if  't  was,"  Huldah 
quietly  remarked.  "  My !  Your  cheeks  '11 
set  your  hair  afii-e." 

Presently  the  schoolmaster  and  the  Hill 
boys  and  girls  came  in,  having  come  to  get 
a  better  start,  as  they  said  ;  and  then  after  a 
little  bustle  of  preparation  the  company  set 
forth  in  the  double  track  that  hoofs  and  run- 
ners had  made  along  the  snowy  road.  The 
young  fry  led  the  van  with  all  manner  of 
pranks  that  the  exuberant  spirits  of  youth 
could  suggest,  until  they  seemed  to  be  in  a 
competition  of  grotesque  forms  with  the  dis- 
torted moonlight  shadows.  After  them  fol- 
lowed the  grown-up  boys  and  girls,  more 
staid  of  mien,  yet  breaking  out  now  and 
then  in  some  irrepressible  freak ;  and  last 
of  all  Sam  and  Huldah,  each  carrying  an 
iron  candlestick  and  sjsare  candle,  and  each 
with  newly  awakened  eyes  upon  the  school- 
master and  Polly,  who  wall^ed  before  them, 
a  well-mated  pair,  Huldah  thought,  but  for  a 
matter  of  eight  or  ten  years'  difference  in 
their  ages.     She  was  fairly  out  of  patience 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER  237 

when  Sam  allowed  liis  attention  to  their 
demeanor  and  her  own  pantomimic  comments 
to  be  so  far  withdrawn  as  to  listen  to  the 
wild  barking  of  a  fox  far  away  in  the  hills, 
faintly  heard  among  the  echoed  shouts  and 
laughter  of  the  yomigsters. 

While  the  young  and  the  middle-aged  thus 
wended  their  way  to  the  schoolliouse,  the 
elderly  folk  bided  at  home  sharing  the  light 
labors  of  evening  housekeeping  with  the  dogs 
and  cats.  Uncle  Lisha  excused  himself  on 
the  plea  that  he  "  could  n't  spell  '  baker '  wi' 
the  book  open  afore  liun ; "  Aunt  Jerusha 
on  that  of  "  rheumatiz,"  and  Timothy  Lovel 
declared  for  the  snug  corner  between  the  stove 
and  wood  box. 

The  cosy  restfulness  of  the  room  might 
tempt  any  one  to  remain  in  it  with  the 
elderly  people,  whose  light  labor  was  little 
more  than  pastime  that  did  not  interrujjt 
conversation  except  when  Aunt  Jerusha 
counted  the  stitches  of  her  knitting.  Uncle 
Lisha  braided  a  woodchuck  skin  wliiplash 
in  most  approved  contour  of  swell  and  taper, 
and  Timothy  Lovel  braided  long,  bristling 
ropes  of  corn  husks  for  mats,  while  the  stove 


238  SAM'S  BOY 

roared,  popped,  and  crackled  a  lively  accom- 
paniment to  the  long,  monotonous  song  of 
tlie  teakettle,  the  moving  and  smothered 
dream-baying  of  the  hound,  and  the  purring 
of  the  cats. 

Hooks  and  poles  over  the  stove  supported 
a  few  strings  of  late-dried  apples  and  some 
shriveled  rings  of  pumj)kin-like  necklaces  of 
old  gold,  beside  two  or  three  clean  dish 
towels  slowly  waving  in  the  currents  of  hot 
air.  On  the  corner  of  the  scoured  kitchen 
table  a  tallow  dip,  in  a  bright  iron  stick,  with 
snuffers,  tray,  and  extinguisher  beside  it, 
dimly  lighted  the  work,  and  cast  faint 
shadows  on  the  ceiling  of  choice  ears  of  seed 
corn  stretching  across  the  cracked  and  wrin- 
kled whitewash,  and  on  the  walls,  shadows 
of  chairs  and  great  and  little  wheels,  one 
saddled  with  its  bundles  of  white  rolls,  the 
other  crowned  with  its  distaff  full  of  fluffy 
flax.  Their  shadows  were  plain  silliouette, 
for  the  wheels  and  the  reel  that  clicked  at 
every  fortieth  turn,  most  coveted  plaything 
of  children,  were  shoved  close  to  the  wall  as 
if  symbolic  of  their  retreat  into  the  back- 
ground of  the  passing  years,  where  the  cards 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER   '  239 

aucl  tlie  loom  had  already  taken  their  places. 
The  rolls  were  made  by  the  carding  machine  ; 
most  of  the  cloth  woven  at  the  factory  where 
much  of  the  woolen  spinning  was  beginning 
to  be  done.  So  the  arts  of  hand-carding  and 
hand-weaving  were  no  longer  indispensable 
parts  of  a  girl's  education,  and  even  the 
beautiful  and  graceful  art  of  wool-spinning 
was  no  longer  taught  to  every  girl.  Old 
folks  mourned  the  degenerate  days  when  the 
musical  hum  of  the  great  wheel  should  be  no 
longer  heard. 

"  If  Polly  does  up  an'  git  married,  I  do' 
know  what  she  '11  do  for  a  settin'  aout," 
Uncle  Lisha  said,  as  his  eyes  wandered  over 
to  the  silent  wheels  and  reel.  "  I  don't  s'pose 
she  could  spin  a  run  o'  yarn  tu  save  her." 

"  Law  sakes  !  Her  mother 's  got  a  'stro'- 
nary  settin'  aout  all  pervided  —  more'n  as 
much  agin  as  Huldy  ever  had ;  stuff  'at 
she  's  saved  up,  an'  stuff  'at  she  's  spun,  an' 
wove  no  eend  o'  linen  sheets  an'  woolen  sheets 
for  winter,  an'  tew  thirty-paound  live-geese 
feather  beds !  " 

"Wal,  Huldy's  Polly '11  know  haow  tu 
spin  an'  weave,  I  '11  warrant  ye,  an'  not  be 


240  •  SAM'S   BOY 

belioldeu  tu  nob'dy  for  her  beddin',"  Uncle 
Lislia  said. 

"I  d'  know  'baont  that,"  said  Timothy, 
shaking  his  head  dubiously.  "It's  all  for 
bein'  pop'lar  naowerdays,  an'  niebby 
Iluldy  '11  foller  the  fashi'n  wi'  Sis.  She  's 
a-cuttin'  an'  sewin'  rags  tu  weave  her  a  car- 
pet for  the  square  room,  an'  fust  ye  know, 
a  h'us'mat  won't  be  good  'nough  for  the 
front  door." 

"  I  '11  resk  Huldy,"  Uncle  Lisha  declared, 
more  loyal  to  his  favorite  than  her  father-in- 
law  was. 

"Ye  can't  tell  what  women  folks '11  du 
when  they  git  envyous  an'  tryin'  tu  be  the 
pop'larist,"  Timothy  insisted.  "There's 
Goveses  folks,  —  coarser  'n  all  tow,  the  old 
ones  be,  but  the  youngest  girl  she 's  up  an' 
had  her  a  m'lodeon,  they  call  it!  My 
senses !  " 

"Yes,  I  know,  an'  it  squeaks  an'  grunts 
ju'  Ink  a  litter  o'  hungry  pigs." 

"  Sho,  naow,  Lisher  !  "  Aunt  Jerusha  ex- 
postulated. "  I  hearn  Philury  a-playin'  on 
her  music,  an'  it 's  raal  pooty." 

"  Pooty  !     Oh,  you  go  'long  wi'  your  non- 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER  241 

sense !  "  the  old  man  snorted  contemptuously. 
"  I  'd  'nough  sight  livser  hear  you  a-tunin' 
up  on  the  big  wheel.  But  that  don't  signify  ; 
Hiddah  hain't  Goveses  folks,"  and  with  that 
the  subject  was  dropped,  while  the  unison 
of  drowsy  sounds  resumed  its  sway,  punctu- 
ated by  the  slow  tick  of  the  clock  and  the 
sharp  irregular  crackle  of  the  fire. 

Gran'ther  Hill,  from  his  judgment  seat, 
growled  his  denunciation  of  modern  sjoelling, 
and  swore  by  the  Lord  Harry,  "  It  should  n't 
unjint  his  time-honored  methods,  an'  he 
wa'n't  a^goin'  nigh  the  blasted  spellin'  bee." 
But  Joseph  attended,  and  even  stood  up  to 
spell. 

The  scene  recalled  to  the  elders  the  even- 
ings of  their  youth,  so  slight  were  the 
changes  the  years  had  wrought  in  the  room. 
The  plaster  of  the  walls  was  but  little  more 
broken,  the  desks  and  seats  but  little  more 
scarred  by  the  knives  of  a  succeeding  genera- 
tion. The  rusty  stove  and  battered  pipe 
roared  and  crackled  as  of  yore,  and  there 
were  the  familiar  odors  of  old  unpainted 
woods  and  musty  books,  and  the  lingering 
mixed  fragrance  of  the  pies,  cake,  doughnuts, 


242  SAM'S  BOY 

apples,  and  cheese  of  cold  dinners,  all  dissi- 
pated for  the  instant  by  the  influx  of  fresh 
outer  air  brought  with  each  new  arrival,  and 
then  settling  to  resumption  of  their  sway. 
But  how  changed  the  faces,  —  new  ones  in 
the  places  of  old,  and  youthful  ones  grown 
mature,  and  all  bringing  to  the  scholars  of 
former  years  a  realization  that  they  were 
growing  old. 

The  exercises  began  with  the  choosins;  of 
sides  by  the  schoolmaster  and  Sam  Lovel, 
and  the  choice  of  Solon  Briggs  to  put  out 
words,  which  j)art  he  performed  to  his  great 
satisfaction,  not  always  suffering  himself  to 
be  confined  to  the  spelling  book  for  words, 
but  sometimes  making  excursions  into  his 
own  wonderful  vocabulary,  as  when  he  gave 
out  "  superguberosity,"  which  no  one  could 
spell,  to  Solon's  satisfaction.  Joseph  Hill 
was  at  no  loss  for  ways  of  spelling  the  words 
that  came  to  him,  but  was  troubled  in  his 
choice  of  the  right  way.  However,  he  had 
reason  to  be  proud  of  the  proficiency  of  his 
children,  and  was  much  comforted  thereby. 

Then  some  big  boys  and  some  little  boys 
recited   "  Casabianea,"    "  Marco    Bozzaris," 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  243 

"  Hohenlinden,"  and  other  district  -  school 
favorites,  some  delivered  in  bold  strident 
voices,  others  in  abashed  and  tremblino-,  but 
all  in  an  unvarying  sing-song  which,  according 
to  the  popular  idea,  constituted  the  principal 
difference  between  poetry  and  prose.  Then 
the  smouldering  fire  was  made  safe  in  a  cover- 
ing of  ashes,  the  candles  were  blown  out,  and 
the  company  dispersed  in  the  best  of  hmnor, 
each  side  taking  its  "  spelling  down  "  with 
jokes  and  laughter. 

An  insight  peculiar  to  the  feminine  mind 
revealed  to  Huldah  that  the  schoolmaster 
and  Polly  were  far  gone  in  love,  and  as  she 
was  not  displeased  by  the  discovery,  except 
for  not  having  made  it  sooner,  nor  realizing 
that  her  sister  was  no  longer  a  little  girl,  she 
made  no  secret  of  it.  It  soon  became  a 
matter  of  neighboi-hood  gossij).  Mrs.  Pur- 
ington  could  not  approve  of  a  match  that 
was  not  of  her  own  making.  For  which  rea- 
son, and  because  she  opposed  everything  on 
principle,  she  made  unpleasant  remarks  to 
those  around  her,  while  she  comforted  her- 
self with  silent  and  somewhat  dry  weeping 
and  deep-drawn  inhalations  of  hartshorn. 


244  SAM'S  BOY 

"  Nob'dy  never  asts  my  'pinion  'baout 
nothin' !  I  hain't  nob'dy  only  Polly's  mother, 
an'  't  ain't  reasonable  they  should  when  it 
consarns  her  futur'  well-bein'.  Oh,  dear 
suzzy  day !  It  seems  as  'ough  the  01'  Scratch 
owed  me  a  gretch  an'  was  payin'  on't  off  in 
son-in-laws.  One  a  fox-hunter,  an'  naow 
it 's  tu  be  a  schoolmarster.  Not  but  what 
schoolniarster  's  well  'nough,  but  why  could  n't 
it  ha'  be'n  a  minister  or  a  marchant  ?  Their 
wives  can  be  someb'dy.  Wal,  what  can't 
be  cured  must  be  endured,  an'  like  'nough 
Mr.  Mumpson  '11  take  tu  the  ministry  arter 
a  spell." 

Taking  this  view  of  future  possibilities 
she  became  more  reconciled  to  Polly's  en- 
gagement, and  the  course  of  the  young 
people's  love  was  permitted  to  run  smoothly, 
except  that  Polly  was  taken  from  school  and 
sent  to  the  new  Academy  down  in  Lakefield. 

Sammy  and  his  sister  continued  to  trudge 
to  school  together  summer  and  winter,  really 
as  fond  of  each  other  as  ever,  but  becoming 
a  little  less  companions  and  playmates  as  the 
tastes  of  the  boy  and  girl  more  distinctly  as- 
serted themselves,  and  each  began  to  have 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER  245 

confidences  and  secrets  that  were  only  for 
other  boys  and  other  girls.  The  time  soon 
came  when  he  was  gi"own  so  tall  and  strong 
that  liis  services  were  needed  on  the  farm, 
and  the  mustj^,  choky  little  schoolroom  knew 
him  no  more  when  the  spring  birds  were 
singuig,  nor  in  the  siunmer  days. 

Sometimes  in  the  soft  May  weather  the 
big  boy  would  dig  worms  and  get  the  tackle 
ready  and  make  Uncle  Lisha  supremely 
happy  by  coaxing  him  out  for  a  day's  fishing. 
What  pleasant  memories  of  the  old  days  it 
brought  back,  yet  how  changed  were  the 
conditions,  for  the  caretaker  now  was  the 
tall,  strong  boy,  and  on  his  stout  arm  the  old 
man  leaned.  The  pleasant  fall  brought  fre- 
quent days  even  in  the  midst  of  corn-husking 
and  potato-digging,  when  the  frosty  grass 
and  windless  air  were  temptations  too  strong 
for  Sam  to  resist,  and  he  and  his  boy  struck 
for  the  woods. 

"  I  'd  ruther  husk  nights  an'  dig  pertaters 
nippin'  cold  days  'an  tu  waste  sech  a  mornin' 
as  this  !  "  Sam  would  say,  though  he  would 
not  find  his  conscience  quite  stilled  until  the 
mellow  music  of  the  hound  drowned  its  voice. 


% 


246  SAM'S   BOY 

At  last  Sammy  quite  outgrew  his  cramped 
seat  in  the  district  school,  and  vacated  it 
forever.  Mr.  Mumpson  had  inspired  him 
with  some  desire  for  learnmg,  and  there  was 
talk  of  sending  him  away  to  the  Academy 
where  Polly  had  been.  While  he  was  dread- 
ing this  departure  from  home  into  the  great 
unknown  world  outside  the  Danvis  hills  with 
heart-sickening  qualms,  gTcat  events  occurred 
to  change  the  course  of  humble  lives  as  well 
as  the  course  of  nations. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN    WAR    TIME 

It  was  many  years  since  the  cinder-paved 
streets  of  the  Forge  Village  had  sounded 
with  the  metallic  notes  of  fife  and  drum,  not 
indeed  since  the  farce  of  June  training  had 
fallen  into  dishonor  and  disuse,  and  was  re- 
membered only  in  the  titles,  which  still  clung 
to  the  surviving  officers  of  the  old  "  Flood- 
wood  Mihtia." 

But  now,  on  a  bright  April  day  in  the 
year  1861,  it  was  vividly  recalled  to  the 
minds  of  elderly  men  by  the  xm wonted  mili- 
tary strains  ringing  through  the  usually  quiet 
thoroughfare  from  the  front  of  Clapham's 
store,  where  a  fifer  and  two  drummers,  who 
had  fortunately  preserved  the  traditions  of 
the  past,  were  shrilling,  rattling,  and  booming 
the  inspiring  notes  of  the  national  airs  witli 
hearty  good  will.  There  was  the  usual  at- 
tendance of  boys,  to  whom  the  strange  de- 


248  SAM'S   BOY 

monstration  meant  only  a  new  source  of  fun, 
though  they  were  somewhat  awed  by  the 
grave  faces  of  their  elders,  which  seemed  to 
denote  a  lack  of  proper  apj)reciation  of  the 
occasion.  A  remarkable  seriousness  per- 
vaded the  assembling  yeomanry  ;  those  who 
wallied  singly  toward  the  chief  point  of  in- 
terest, the  groups  that  gathered  lingering  on 
the  way,  and  the  crowd  that  thronged  in 
front  of  the  unfinished  new  annex  to  the 
store  were  very  quiet,  though  so  evidently 
moved  by  suppressed  excitement.  One 
would  never  have  thought  that  these  plain, 
common,  unsentimental  men  could  be  so 
deejjly  stirred  by  patriotic  emotion,  not 
blatantly  boasting  of  what  they  would  do, 
but  quietly  determined  to  do  aU  men  could 
do,  to  uphold  the  honor  and  the  life  of  the 
nation  which  were  now  assailed. 

Clapham  sat  in  an  armchair  on  the 
stoop  reading  yesterday's  daily  to  a  group. 
Among  the  listeners  stood  Joel  Bartlett, 
now  a  venerable  white-haired  man,  with  his 
back  turned  upon  the  musicians,  whose  noisy 
performance  he  quite  ignored. 

"  President  calls  for  seventy-five  thousan' 


IN   WAR  TIME  249 

troops,"  Clapliam  read.  "  Bombardment  o£ 
Fort  Sumter  still  continues.  Gov'nor  Fair- 
banks call  a'  extra  settin'  of  tlie  Leegislature. 
Enlistments  goin'  on  rapid.  Fust  rigimint 
nearly  fvdl,  an'  so  futh,  and  so  futh." 

Sam  Lovel  and  his  son  were  just  then 
passing,  and  stopped  a  moment  to  listen. 

"  Fellow  citizens  of  Danvis !  "  shouted 
young  Law;y"er  Danforth,  a  recent  importa- 
tion, who  had  just  displayed  his  virgin 
sliingie  over  his  office  in  the  chamber  of 
Clapham's  store,  and  now  had  visions  of  a 
captaincy  and  future  civil  preferment.  "  Fel- 
low citizens  !  "  he  repeated,  making  himself 
heard  during  a  break  in  the  music,  "your 
country  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty. 
Walk  right  up  and  enlist !  " 

"  Hev  you  ?  "  asked  big  John  Dart. 

"  No,"  Danforth  answered ;  "  I  'm  going 
to  Adams  to  recruit  men  to-morrow,  and  ex- 
pect to  enlist  there." 

"  Oh !  mebby  so,"  John  Dart  remarked 
dryly,  as  he  and  Sam  passed  into  the  room, 
where  a  heutenant  of  the  regular  army  sat 
writing  at  an  empty  dry-goods  box. 

"  Ye  would  not  give  heed  to  the  words  of 


250  SAM'S   BOY 

the  prophets,  and  now  the  jedginent  of  the 
Lord  has  overtaken  ye,"  said  Joel  Bartlett 
solemnly.  "  Woe,  woe  be  unto  them  against 
whom  His  wrath  is  kindled." 

"  That 's  true  enough,  Joel,"  a  younger 
neighbor  said,  "  but  I  caFlate  it 's  kindled 
hotter  ag'in  the  other  fellers,  and  the  Lord 
kinder  wants  us  fur  a  scourge  tu  'em." 

"  The  sin  o'  slavery  is  the  cause  on't  all, 
an'  we  're  all  guilty,"  Joel  responded. 

Sammy  was  looking  around  for  his  father, 
when  he  saw  him  coming  out  of  the  recruiting 
office  and  went  to  him.  Sam's  face  was  very 
grave,  yet  shone  with  a  holy  elation. 

"  Come,  boy,  le'  's  go  hum  naow,"  said  he, 
passing  an  arm  through  his  tall  son's,  whose 
head  was  on  a  level  with  his  own. 

"  In  a  minute,  daddy  ;  just  le'  me  speak 
tu  Peltier  Gove,"  said  Sammy,  and  he  slipped 
into  the  crowd  and  then  into  the  office,  where 
he  found  Pelatiah  at  the  impromptu  desk. 
"  Mr.  Gove,"  he  asked,  "  has  father  'listed?  " 

Pelatiah  regarded  him  fixedly  a  moment 
and  pointed  to  the  name  of  "  Samuel  Lovel " 
on  the  roU,  and  under  it  he  saw  that  of 
"  Pelatiah  Gove." 


IN  WAR   TIME  251 

"  Let  me  put  my  name  claown  there,  Mis- 
ter," said  Sammy,  standing  very  erect,  while 
the  young  officer  ran  an  achniring  glance 
over  the  handsome  young  figure. 

"  Is  your  father  willin',  Sammy  ?  "  Pelatiah 
asked. 

"  He  did  n't  ask  me,"  Sammy  said,  with  a 
little  laugh,  and  having  completed  his  enroll- 
ment, quietly  rejoined  his  father.  "  Le'  's  go 
over  where  the  women  's  makin'  the  flag, ".he 
said,  and  the  two  went  over  to  the  town 
house,  where  a  score  of  young  women  were 
sewing  the  stripes  of  a  new  flag  together,  and 
fixing  the  stars  in  the  blue  field  under  the 
direction  of  Mr.  Mumpson,  the  schoolmaster. 

Some  giggled  and  gossiped  as  if  they  were 
at  a  quilting,  while  a  few  plied  their  needles 
with  grave  faces,  as  if  duly  impressed  with 
the  holy  significance  of  the  work  upon  which 
they  were  engaged.  Among  them  was  Aunt 
Polly,  now  two  months  a  bride,  after  many 
years  of  courtship.  There  was  a  serious 
yet  almost  exidtant  look  in  her  eyes  as  they 
dwelt  fondly  on  the  pale  face  of  her  husband. 

"  Maybe  it 's  wicked,  but  I  can't  help 
feelin'  glad  you  can't  go,"  she  whispered. 


252  SAM'S   BOY 

"  It  woidd  be  hard  for  us  to  part,  dear 
cliild,  but  no  harder  than  for  many  others," 
he  said  sadly,  "  and  it 's  hard  to  stay  behind 
when  you  can't  tell  folks  just  why." 

"  The  folks  that  don't  know  wiU  give  any 
reason  but  the  right  one." 

A  pink  and  white  cheeked,  golden-tressed, 
and  blue-eyed  lass  came  over  to  the  pair. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Mumpson,  you  hain't  goin' 
tu  waste  your  time  makin'  flags,  be  ye  ? 
Ain't  you  goin'  tu  enlist  ?  "  she  simpered. 

"  No,  Miss  Nancy,  I  don't  think  I  shall 
enlist,"  the  schoolmaster  answered  quietly, 
with  a  sad  smile. 

Nancy  Barnes  opened  her  blue  eyes. 
"  Why,  I  don't  see  haow  a  man  can  help  it, 
they  du  look  so  neat  all  dressed  up  in  the' 
uniforms.  I  see  a  hul  snag  on  'em  daown  tu 
the  Fair  last  fall,  as  much  as  fifty,  an'  they 
did  look  splendid,  —  only  the'  clo'es  was  gray 
—  blue 's  ever  so  much  pootier.  Jes'  look 
a'  that  leftenant  'at 's  'listin'  of  'em !  My ! 
hain't  he  jest  lovely  ?  I  tol'  Jim  I  wouldn't 
never  speak  tu  him  nor  yet  look  at  him  agin 
if  he  did  n't  go."  She  blushed  to  a  rosier 
hue,  and  simpered  a  sillier  smile.     "  Why, 


IN  WAR  TIME  253 

Mis'  Muinpson,  I  sliould  tliiuk  you  'd  make 
Mr.  Mumpson  go  !  " 

"  He  gen'ally  does  what  he  thinks  is 
best,"  Polly  answered,  rather  stiffly,  with  an 
evident  wish  to  end  the  conversation.  But 
Nancy  was  of  no  such  mind. 

"Why,  he  hain't  tew  old,  is  he?"  she 
asked,  with  a  sneer,  "  He  'pears  tu  be  well 
'nough  tu  git  'raound  an'  eat  his  meals  when 
he 's  boardin'.  I  hope  he  hain't  'feard ! 
Oh,  I  hate  a  coward.  He  needn't  be,  for 
pa  says  they  '11  settle  it  all  up  m  a  month. 
They  won't  fight." 

The  schoohnaster's  pale  face  flushed  scar- 
let, and  his  wife  flashed  out  angrily  at  his 
insiilter.  "  He  a  coward  !  It 's  a  lie  !  You 
don't  know  what  you  're  sayin',  Nancy 
Barnes.  He  'd  go  fast  enough  if  he  could 
without  my  sendin'  him,  but  not  tu  strut 
'raound  in  blue  clo'es.  He  knows  there  '11 
be  fightin'  enough,  an'  that 's  what  he  'd  go 
for.  I  would  n't  da'st  tu  send  him,  as  you 
have  Jim,  poor  boy.  S'posin'  he  never  comes 
back,  as  many  a  one  never  will,  —  I  would  n't 
be  in  your  shoes." 

The  pink  of  Nancy's  cheeks  faded  all  to 


254  SAM'S  BOY 

white,  and  she  beat  a  hasty  retreat  from  the 
angry  fire  of  Polly's  eyes. 

Through  the  open  door,  as  Sam  and  his 
boy  entered,  came  the  songs  of  robins,  and 
the  long-drawn  sweetness  of  a  lark's  note 
from  the  nearest  meadow  mingled  in  the  soft 
April  air  with  the  martial  din  of  fife  and 
drum,  sounds  of  gentle  peace  and  dreadful 
war  strangely  blended. 

"  Why,  Aunt  PoUy,"  said  Sammy,  noting 
the  scared  face  of  the  retreating  girl  and  the 
wrathful  one  of  his  young  aunt,  "  has  the 
fightin'  begun  to  home,  an'  amongst  the 
women  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  they  're  all  in  a  hurrah  daown 
tu  the  village?  Many  'listin' ? "  Huldah 
asked,  as  the  family  sat  at  supper  that  even- 
ing. 

"  Why,  yes,  tol'able  many,"  Sam  admitted. 
Something  in  his  look  and  tone  made  Huldah's 
heart  stand  still. 

"Oh,  Samwil,  hev  you?"  she  faltered, 
and  Sam  nodded  his  head  gravely. 

"  You  would  n't  think  much  on  me  if  I 
didn't,  Huldy." 


IN  WAR  TIME  255 

"  I  know,  but  it  seems  as  if  the'  was 
enough  others." 

"  S'posin'  they  all  said  so." 

"  The  Lord  bless  you  and  all,"  and  she 
bowed  her  head. 

"  Peltier  has,  tew ;  an'  Billy  Wiggins,  an' 
John  Dart,  an'  young  Tom  Hamlin,  an'  he 
hain't  but  eighteen,"  said  Sammy. 

"  So  young,"  sighed  Huldah,  laying  her 
hand  on  her  tall  son's  shoulder.  "  But  they 
can't  have  my  big  boy  yet.  He  must  ta'  care 
o'  mammy  an'  his  sister  an'  brother." 

"  But,  mother,"  Sammy  said ;  and  then  with 
some  pride,  "I  —  I  hev  'listed.  I  thought 
you  'd  want  me  to  go  with  daddy." 

Huldah  groaned  aloud,  and  Sam  choked 
with  conflicting  emotions. 

"  Oh,  must  I  give  you  both  up  ?  "  she  gasped, 
and  she  and  Aunt  Jerusha  retired  to  hide 
their  womanly  tears. 

When  the  company  was  f  uU  Sam  was  unan- 
imously elected  captain,  and  Pelatiah  first 
lieutenant,  greatly  to  the  disgust  of  Mr.  Dan- 
forth.  Poor  Mr.  Mumpson  was  rejected  for 
physical  disability,  and  consoled  himself  with 
the  increased  love  and  resjsect  of  Polly,  and 


256  SAM'S   BOY 

in  teaching  the  Danvis  youth  a  new  les- 
son. 

There  were  a  few  days  of  hurried  prepara- 
tion before  the  Danvis  volunteers  bade  sad 
farewell  to  home  and  loved  ones,  and  went 
into  camp  with  their  regiment  in  the  town 
where  the  First  Vermont  troops  were  mus- 
tered. For  several  it  was  their  first  railroad 
journey,  and  new  and  strange  experiences 
followed  thick  and  fast.  These  humble, 
unknown  men  were  suddenly  become  the  ob- 
served of  all  observers,  and  the  pets  of  fine 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  Accustomed  all  their 
lives  to  come  and  go  at  their  own  sweet  will, 
they  were  now  subjected  to  rigid  discipline 
and  unquestioning  obedience  to  men  formerly 
of  their  own  station.  It  came  hard  at  first 
to  show  due  deference  to  the  gold  lace  and 
buttons  of  new-made  brigadiers  who  were 
yesterday  village  lawyers,  now  far  more  im- 
pressed with  their  new  dignity  than  were  the 
modest  gentlemen  of  the  regular  army  who 
came  to  set  the  rude  machinery  into  smoothly 
working  action. 

The  half  of  Danvis  came  to  see  its  soldier 
boys  in  camp,  to  admire  them  on  parade,  to 


IN   WAR   TIME  257 

pity  their  hardships  of  sleeping  on  straw  un- 
der canvas,  di'inking  creamless  coffee  from 
tin  cups,  and  eating  monotonous  pork  and 
beans  off  tin  plates,  and  to  wonder  how  hero- 
ically they  bore  it  all. 

Then  came  the  final  farewell  to  the  people, 
the  green  fields  and  bright  streams  of  their 
beloved  Vermont,  to  the  grand  landmarks  of 
the  towering  mountains  fading  to  fainter 
blue  farther  and  farther  behind.  Then  the 
proud  march  through  great  cities,  gay  with  in- 
numerable banners,  amid  applauding  crowds, 
and  the  coming  at  last  under  sunny  Southern 
skies  to  the  scenes  of  real,  dreadful  war,  — 
the  thunder  of  cannon  booming  from  afar, 
the  sight  of  wounded  men  fresh  from  the  first 
skirmishes,  and  thereat  the  sickening  fear 
that  untried  couraoe  mioht  fail  at  the  actual 
test.  Now  came  camp  life  in  earnest,  —  the 
awful  loneliness  of  the  picket  line,  weary 
marches  and  bivouacs  in  rain  and  mire,  with 
scant  rations  and  sometimes  none  at  all,  —  and 
usually  to  no  purpose.  Letters  came  from 
them  to  the  friends  at  home,  and  were  opened 
with  dread,  then  read  with  devout  thanks  that 
they    brought    no   evil  tidings.      The  good 


258  SAM'S  BOY 

schoolmaster  wrote  letters  full  of  cheer  and 
neighborhood  news  to  the  few  who  had  no 
near  friends  at  home,  and  got  many  a  silent, 
heartfelt  blessing  in  return. 

One  day,  Uncle  Lisha,  exempt  by  age  from 
all  labor,  came  back  from  his  semi-weekly 
trip  to  the  post  office,  leaning  heavily  on  his 
staff,  and  led  by  Sam's  second  boy,  his  pre- 
sent constant  comrade,  and  brought  a  letter 
from  Sam  that  told  of  a  great  movement  of 
the  Army  of  the  Potomac  about  to  take  place. 
For  all  its  hopefidness  there  were  solemn 
words  in  it  that  might  be  a  long  farewell, 
and  Huldah's  always  anxious  heart  was  very 
heavy.  How  anxiously  all  waited  for  news, 
only  those  know  who  have  suffered  a  like 
exi^erience.  Then  came  rumors,  then  assured 
tidings,  of  an  overwhelming  disaster  to  the 
army,  and  then  many  days  of  fear  and  hope 
and  suspense,  while  word  of  the  loved  ones 
was  waited  for.  With  what  devout  thanks- 
giving was  it  received  at  last,  news  that  they 
were  all  unharmed  and  free.  Many  more 
such  seasons  were  to  be  passed  through,  and 
a  continuous  heartache  to  be  endured,  before 
the  brave  regiment  fought  its  way  to  final 


IN  WAR  TIME  259 

victory  and  the  cruel  war  was  ended.  When 
it  returned  with  thinned  ranks  and  torn  ban- 
ners and  boys  grown  to  bearded  veterans,  it 
brought  safely  back  its  members  to  the  Lovel 
household,  but  the  humble  hero  Pelatiah, 
tenderly  remembered  by  his  Danvis  friends 
and  comrades,  sleeps  under  the  alien  sod  of 
Virginia.  Every  year  there  are  flowers  on 
Loizy's  grave  for  his  sake. 

Old  men  and  women  are  they  all  now  who 
survive,  to  whom  the  memory  of  that  cruel 
war  is  a  troubled  dream,  its  sorrows  softened 
by  the  kuidly  hand  of  Time,  many  of  its  hopes 
unfulfilled. 


EUctrotyped  arid  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  <V  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


t  t  t  A  LIST  OF 
CONTEMPORARY 
FICTION  t  t  t  t 


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Five  sisters  live  with  their  widowed  mother  in  a  New  York  flat,  and 
pursue  various  methods  of  earning  a  livelihood.  This  is  the  story  of  their 
romances. 


SAM     LOVEL'S     BOY.       By    Rowland    E. 
Robinson 

Author  of  "  A  Danvis  Pioneer,"  "Danvis  Folks,"  "Uncle  Lisha's 
Outing,"  "Sam  Lovel's  Camp,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i6mo,  $1.2 J. 

The  story  is  the  bringing-up  of  Sam  Lovel's  son.  He  is  taught  all 
about  sport  and  woodcraft,  and  the  book  is  full  of  the  nature-interest  that 
distinguishes  all  the  author's  writings.  The  background  of  the  story  is 
the  homely  Vermont  life  of  half  a  century  ago. 

THE     TURN     OF    THE    ROAD.      By    Eu- 
genia Brooks  Frothingham 

Cloth,  1 2 mo,  $l._50. 

A  beautiful  girl  of  much  musical  talent  sacrifices  the  devotion  of  her 
lover  to  her  ambition.  She  compels  a  certain  degree  of  applause  for 
her  technique,  but  is  unable  to  win  the  hearts  of  people.  The  news  of  her 
lover's  misfortune  awakens  her  most  womanly  instinct,  and  she  finds  in 
love  not  only  happiness  but  the  key  to  an  artistic  triumph, 

DOG-WATCHES  AT   SEA.     By  Stanton  H. 
King 

Illustrated,  cloth,  12 mo,  $1.^0. 

This  is  the  plain  tale  of  twelve  years  in  the  merchant  and  naval  marine. 
It  is  simple  in  style  and  presents  the  realistic  side  of  sea  life.  The  writer 
sailed  in  many  ships  and  visited  many  ports,  but  the  chief  interest  of  his 
story  will  be  found  in  his  truthful  account  of  the  actual  conditions  of  life 
before  the  mast  —  sometimes  relieved  by  the  kindness  of  shipmates  and 
the  humanity  of  officers. 

A   PILLAR  OF   SALT.     By  Jennette  Lee 

Author  of  "  Kate  Wetherill." 

Cloth,  i6mo,  $1.2^. 

A  striking  story  of  the  passion  of  the  inventor  for  working  out  his 
dreams  —  through  disappointment  and  defeat  and  renewed  struggle  to  the 
day  of  final  triumph  —  and  the  opposition  of  his  wife,  a  practical  New 
England  woman,  whose  desire  is  for  the  good  things  of  life  and  an  abun- 
dance of  them.  In  and  out  through  the  story  is  woven  the  life  of  the 
family  and  of  "the  Street"  and  of  the  New  England  factory  town  in 
which  the  scene  of  the  story  is  laid. 


A  SOLDIER  OF  VIRGINIA  :  A  Story  of 
Colonel  Washington  and  Braddock's  De- 
feat.    By  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson 

Author  of  "  At  Odds  with  the  Regent." 

Illustrated,  cloth,  crown  8vo,  $i.^o. 

Besides  faithful  delineations  of  Washington  as  a  young  officer,  and 
Braddock  as  a  brave  but  mistaken  commander,  the  narrative  presents  a 
true  picture  of  Virginia  society  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  love  story  is  fresh  in  sentiment  and  unhackneyed  in  treatment. 

KING'S    END.     By  Alice  Brown 

Author  of  "Meadow  Grass,"  "Tiverton  Tales,"  "The  Day  of  His 
Youth,"  etc. 

Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.^0. 

The  story  of  a  religiously  inclined  girl's  struggles  between  sacrifice  of 
love  to  her  "  ideals  "  and  devotion  to  her  lover  —  in  which  the  latter  at 
last  wins  the  day.  A  picture  of  New  England  village  life,  with  amusing 
portrayals  of  eccentric  New  England  character. 

THE  CURIOUS  CAREER  OF  RODERICK 
CAMPBELL.     By  Jean  N.  Mcllwraith 

Author  of  "  A  History  of  Canada,"  "  The  Making  of  Mary,"  etc. 

Illustrated,  cloth,  crown  8vo,  $j.^o. 

The  hero  fights  in  Scotland  for  Prince  Charlie  for  love  of  a  little  lady 
above  him  in  station.  After  CuUoden  the  scene  shifts  to  New  York  and 
Canada,  where  there  are  trading  and  exploring  adventures  among  Indians, 
and  fighting  between  French  and  English  j  and  here  the  hero  finally  wins 
his  lady's  love. 

THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD.  By  Her- 
bert D.  Ward 

Author   of  "The    Burglar   Who   Moved    Paradise,"    "The   White 
Crown,  and  Other  Stories,"  etc. 

Illustrated,  cloth ^  square  i2mo,  $l.oo. 

A  great  lens-maker  discovers  die  nature  and  law  of  light.  He  views 
in  the  radiant  energy  the  death  of  Gordon  at  Khartum,  and  then  witnesses 
the  resurrection  of  Jesus.  The  story  is  novel  in  conception,  is  told  with 
much  narrative  interest,  and  is  powerful  in  its  appeal  to  Christian  ideals. 


ROBERT   TOURNAY.     By  William  Sage 

Cloth,  crow 71  8vo,  $1.^0. 
Mr.  Sage  tells  a  love  story  of  the  French  Revolution,  narrates  many 
adventures  which  are  thrilling  but  never  sensational,  and  introduces  noted 
leaders  of  ' '  The  Terror. ' ' 

THE    SON    OF   THE    WOLF:    Tales  of  the 
Far  North.     By  Jack  London 

Cloth,  crown  8vo,  $i.^o. 
Jack  London  is  "the  Kipling  of  the  Yukon  country;  "  his  stories 
are  vivid  pictures  of  nature  in  Alaska,  and  of  men  and  women  as  influenced 

by  it. 

POOR   PEOPLE.     By  I.  K.  Friedman 

Author  of  "  The  Lucky  Number." 
Cloth,  crown  8vo,  $i.^o. 
A  novel  of  tenement  —  not  slum  —  life;  and  of  its  ambitions  and 
struggles,  its  successes  and  failures.      With  a  beautiful  love  story. 

THE    BURDEN  OF   CHRISTOPHER.     By 

Florence  Converse 

Author  of  "  Diana  Victrix." 
,Cloth,  I2mo,  $1.^0. 
Miss  Converse  chronicles  the  defeat  of  an  altruistic  enterprise,   and 
whils  she  tells  a  beautiful  love  story,  shows  that  modern  competition  and 
Christianity  are  incompatible. 

KNIGHTS  IN  FUSTIAN.  By  Caroline  Brown 

Cloth,  crown  8vo,  $1.^0. 
This  is  a  romantic  story  of  the  "  Knights  of  the  Golden  Circle  "  in 
Indiana,  who  so  much  disturbed  the  North  during  the  war  for  the  Union. 

THE   QUEEN'S   GARDEN.     By  Mrs.  M.  E. 
M.  Davis 

Author  of  "  The  Wire  Cutters  "  and  "  Under  the  Man-Fig." 

Cloth,  i6mo,  $1.25. 
An  old  Creole  mansion  in  the  New  Orleans  of  to-day  is  the  scene  of 
this  stor)',  and  here,  in  an  almost  idyllic  way,  a  boy  and  girl  find  and  love 
each  other. 

The  Publishers  will  be  pleased  to  send  free,  to 
persons  requesting  it,  their  Bulletin  of  New 
Books,  a  quarterly  announcemetit  of  New 
Publications  and  New  Editions  issued  by 
them   and  including   their  Holiday   Books. 


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W3 

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